


Artistic Licence

by cametobuyplums



Series: Artistic Licence [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Anal Sex, Artist Bucky Barnes, Blindfolds, Body Shots, Boys Kissing, Champagne, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Edgeplay, F/M, Face-Sitting, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Girls Kissing, Gratuitous Smut, Group Sex, Ice Play, Lawyer Bucky Barnes, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, Mirror Sex, Nipple Play, Nude Modeling, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Porn With Plot, Public Sex, Rimming, Role Reversal, Rough Sex, Sebastian Stan Smoking Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Set in Paris, Sex Toys, Sexual Roleplay, Smoking, Spanking, Sugar Daddy Bucky, The Filthiest Shit I've Ever Written, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-10-11 05:04:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17440478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cametobuyplums/pseuds/cametobuyplums
Summary: Once upon a time in Paris, there was an aspiring creative down on her luck. She hopes to make a name for herself in the city's intellectual scene. But between the wine and cigarettes, she loses her job only to be offered an unconventional offer from a handsome, wealthy man. What’s a beautiful young woman to do? Agree for James "Bucky" Barnes to be her Sugar Daddy, of course.





	1. Un

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. It's time for a new challenge. If you've read any of my other works you know I have a torrid affair with the city of Paris. And this particular story? Well, this story is 75% me wanting to write filthy Bucky smut, 20% me wanting to write a wild female character, and 5% me wanting to write about the bohemian, intellectual scene in Paris. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy the first chapter and stick around for the ride. I would love to hear what you think, so please do comment and let me know your feedback.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

_“Paris is the only city in the world where starving yourself is still considered an art.”_

You snort, cigarette ash littering the yellowing pages of your book. You reread the line once more, the irony not lost on you considering black coffee and cigarettes are the staples of your diet. Wanda’s good to you, she places arrays of cheese and bread down when you frequent her wine bar. More often than not, she’s also sent groceries to your apartment, ignoring your protests.

Stubbing the cigarette out, you tuck your book under your arm and begin your walk along the River Seine, dodging tourists searching for padlocks across one of the many bridges. It’s been a little over six months, not that you’re worried. You came here to escape the constraints of time and societal constructs of success. Still, Paris isn’t the cheapest city in the world and your rent won’t pay itself.

Luckily, you’ve found a way to help pay bills that doesn’t involve you selling your soul to a big corporation or some shitty businessman. There’s an academy of arts you’ve stumbled upon not far from your apartment and that’s where you’re headed. It’s only a few hours of your time but they pay quite well, and you’ve negotiated use of their facilities, too. Your footsteps echo as you trot up the marble steps, taking the winding staircase to the second floor.

“ _Salut_ , Maria.” you greet.

“You’re late.” she replies, raising an eyebrow.

“I know, I’m sorry.” you apologise, shrugging your jacket off. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s what you always say.” she sighs. “Just, hurry up so we can get started.”

* * *

Steve’s mouth is moving, but Bucky has developed the unique skill of tuning out his best friend when he’s delivering one of his lectures. It must be one of his worser ones because he notes Steve’s “eyebrows of disappointment”. Bucky loves his best friend dearly, but their business conversations always end with Steve probing into his love life. Steve means well, he’s simply that kind of person, but he fails to understand Bucky isn’t ready to jump back into a relationship yet.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”

There’s a hint of accusation laced in Steve’s words but Bucky doesn’t even bother to look guilty. His head simply lolls to one side, his shoulders rising and falling in an unapologetic shrug. Steve sighs and studies his best friend, earning himself a groan.

“Steve, for the love of God, stop _worryin’_.”

“It’s been a year, Bucky. All you do is _work_.”

Bucky snorts and Steve raises an eyebrow.

“Having lunch with me and Peggy on Sundays doesn’t count.”

Scoffing, Bucky is all too familiar with the feeling that arguing with Steve is a fruitless task so he scrapes his chair back loudly as he stands. Steve mimics him, following him to the door.

“Why don’t you join one of the art classes again?” Steve proposes.

“Don’t have the time.”

The excuse falls from Bucky’s lips all too easily, the two men walking down the empty corridor. Bucky’s hands are shoved in his pockets as he glances into the various classrooms. A flurry of movement catches his eye and he stops, feet rooted to the spot as he’s greeted by a periwinkle blue shirt sliding down a pair of shoulders. It’s happening in slow motion, smooth skin being revealed to him inch by inch and he knows he should look away, but he’s helpless to do anything except watch as a black lace bra joins the growing pile of clothes.

Bucky’s eyes are fixed on the woman’s small frame as she patters across the room, pulling aside a curtain and taking a seat on a small couch surrounded by students, all impatiently waiting with open sketchbooks and poised pencils. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder, allowing him a glimpse of her face and his tongue darts out, licking his suddenly dry lips as he commits her beauty to his memory.

Her body is bare to him but his eyes only dance over her briefly before they flit back up to her face. She’s pretty enough. Not stunning and certainly not ethereal, but there’s something exquisite about her he can’t quite put his finger on. She has a natural kind of beauty about her; her face is free from make-up and it appears that fingers see her hair more than a brush does. There’s warmth in her eyes, sunlight gleaming in her irises. And that smile, it’s small, it’s coy and it makes Bucky wish he were the reason for it.

A chuckle shatters his bubble and composing himself, Bucky turns his head, rolling his eyes at the amusement on Steve’s face.

“Sorry pal, but that view's for students only.”

Bucky grunts as Steve claps a hand on his shoulder. Sneaking one more glance at the pretty woman, he rounds on his friend defiantly.

“Alright, where do I sign up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	2. Deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a new student in your life drawing class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut, thank you so much for the response to the first chapter. I'm really excited about writing this one, so I hope you will enjoy reading this next chapter. As always, I really appreciate any comments, it's such a pleasure hearing your thoughts.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

****Specks of dust dance in the rays of sunshine that stream through the window. The radio is playing away softly, the tune so familiar to you now that you hum along subconsciously. You’re on time for once, but only because you’ve been in the studio since lunch. The smell of turpentine is oddly comforting to you, the silence of the empty room allowing you to finish your writing in peace. You only hope the newspaper will pay you in a timely fashion; rent and bills looming.

Perhaps one day, you won’t need to rely on other sources of income. Dreams of your imagined success fill your mind as Maria calls out your name and you wordlessly make your way over to the dais in the centre of the studio. The strangest sensation washes over you and it’s only when you straighten up that you realise why.

The most striking pair of blue eyes look back at you and you shiver involuntarily. You’ve never felt so _exposed_ and suddenly, shyness overcomes you. The crystal blue eyes rake over your bared skin, leaving behind a pink flush. And yet, there’s nothing perverted about the intensity of his stare. You’ve done this enough times to recognise a true artist’s gaze. A gaze that appreciates every freckle, admires every contour, adores every line.

In turn, you let your eyes trail over him. He’s dressed simply in a grey t-shirt and dark jeans, much like the others. Perhaps it’s the way his muscular thighs are outlined, or the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, but he oozes charm and sex which is _so_ unlike all the others. You imagine he’s the kind of man who need only walk into a room to command it, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. You lift your chin haughtily and meet his eyes once more, smiling confidently back at him so he knows _exactly_ the kind of woman that you are.

The better part of the hour is spent spinning an elaborate story in your head about the handsome man before you. You play Sherlock, looking for clues that will help you paint a picture of who he is. He’s not French, of that much you’re sure; he doesn’t carry himself like one. He’s wealthy; he’s not decked in flashy logos but he’s wearing a Rolex on his left wrist. He has style but doesn’t want to look like he’s trying too hard; the sneakers he’s wearing are brilliantly white, not a single scuff in sight.

Eventually, your thoughts run away from you and you let them. Maria’s voice announcing the end of the class brings you back down to earth and as she encourages the students to critique each other’s work, you stand and languidly make your way back to your clothes, a pair of blue eyes watching you the entire time.

You’re in your jeans, sliding your arms into your button-up shirt when you feel his presence behind you. His scent is intoxicating and you take a minute to breathe in it; leather accord, cashmeran, bitter almond. It’s a bold expression of pure luxury and masculinity. Slowly, you turn to face him. Time seems to still before he breaks the silence.

“ _Bonjour_ , _mademoiselle_.”

No, he’s definitely not French. There’s a tilt to his accent and instantly, you know him to be American. He hasn’t seemingly guessed that you’re not a native Parisian either, so you keep up your little charade.

“ _Monsieur_ ,” you nod. “ _Comment puis-je vous aider_?”

“ _Je souhaite_ , uh, _vous montrer mon travail_?”

You’re amused by how tentative he sounds, almost unsure of himself, as he politely offers his drawing out to you. You smile, leaving your shirt unbuttoned as you move beside him. He’s _talented_ , not that you ever doubted it, but a shiver runs down your spine at the deft marks he’s made on the paper. It’s more than a drawing, it’s as if he’s captured all your emotions with his pencil.

“ _Vous avez un talent pour le dessin_.”

He perks at your praise, his smile brightens his blue eyes and just as you’re about lose yourself in them, Maria materialises out of nowhere, an apologetic smile directed at you both.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I need to speak to Y/N.”

Not only does Maria confirm your suspicions about him, she also reveals that you too, are not Parisian. This newfound knowledge seems to delight him, his smile turning into something more of a smirk but you’re not embarrassed, smirking right back at him as Maria leads you aside.

“Is this the part where you tell me I was actually on time today?” you grin.

“Actually, I have some bad news.” she replies. “I have to let you go.”

Your face falls and Maria has the courtesy to look apologetic.

“Is this because of my lateness?” you stammer, but she shakes her head.

“No.”

“Then?”

“It’s nothing against you, Y/N,” she says in what she imagines to be a reassuring tone. “But, you’ve been with us for a few months and I think the students need a new challenge.”

“But, we had an agreement. Reduced pay so I can use the facilities and- I need this job, Maria!”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

A certain dread blankets you. A cocktail of anger, worry, and sorrow. Anxiety begins to creep in, defeat making your bones ache dully. It’s when you feel hot tears prickle your eyes that you snatch up your belongings and scarper, barely paying the blue-eyed man a second glance.

You find yourself standing in front of the Seine, haphazardly buttoning your shirt up as you balance an unlit cigarette between your lips. Flinging your bag at your feet, you huff when you realise you’ve lost your lighter.

“May I?”

You whirl around at the sound of his deep voice. He looks handsomer, if that’s possible, in the dying light. The last few dregs of sunshine highlight the sparse grey hairs that pepper his beard, something you find inexplicably attractive. He’s clutching a lighter in his right hand, and you lean towards the flickering flame, your cigarette still tucked in your mouth.

“Thank you.”

“Ah, she speaks English.” he teases, lighting his own cigarette.

“Better than you speak French.” you tease back.

“In my defence, I’m used to talking business, not conversational French with beautiful women.”

“And do you normally follow them, too?”

“You’re the exception.”

You know you should be concerned. He may not have followed you far, the academy practically sits on the riverbank, but you barely know this man. You look at him questioningly, only to be met with a smirk that reeks of mischief.

“You intrigue me,” he says lowly. “You’re beautiful and smart.”

You laugh harshly, ash falling from your dwindling cigarette and fluttering down to the cobbles .

“Well, take a good look as I won’t be in your class any longer.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here.” he says, and your eyes snap to his. “I overheard your conversation with Maria.”

Pink colours your cheeks, but he’s quick to reassure that embarrassing you isn’t his intention.

“I’d like to propose an arrangement, one that’s mutually beneficial.”

You remain silent and he takes it as an invitation to continue.

“You wouldn’t have to worry about paying your rent or bills,” he explains. “Anything that involves money, I’d take care of it, of _you_.”

He pauses and you wait for the catch.

“In return,” he says slowly, stepping closer to you. “I’d like to draw you again. Just the two of us.”

Is that it?

“And I’d like the occasional company.”

Company? Oh, _company_.

“Let me see if I have this right,” you say quietly. “You want me to pay me to take my clothes off for you?”

“Not so crudely.” he reasons. “It’s not about treating you like an escort or- “

“I don’t even know your name!”

“James, but you can call me Bucky.”

“Well, _James_ , you might be attractive and wealthy, but you’re crazy!”

Shooting him one final glare, you clutch your bag to your chest and storm off as fast as your feet will carry you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	3. Trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You share a glass of wine with James.
> 
> Smut Warnings: dirty talk, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, semi-public sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut, tout le monde. This chapter gets down to business and it's the first time I've ever written smut so explicitly. I'd love to hear what you think of it. Constructive criticism is always helpful, as are comments about things you think I've gotten right. I hope you enjoy reading.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

****“Wait, wait, wait,” says Wanda, pouring you a glass of wine. “A man offered to be your _sugar_ _daddy_?”

“Yes.” you groan back, encouraging her to fill the glass to the brim.

“And you said _no_?”

“Wanda!”

“What?” she cries. “I’m just saying, you should have at least considered it.”

You mutter a few choice words into your glass, the wine slipping down easy as anything. Wanda is undeterred, evidently not done discussing the subject. You’re perched at the counter of her wine bar, a small but established gem of a place. A local watering hole away from the prying eyes of tourists; the bare brick walls, exposed wooden beams and dusty light beams are all a welcome sight.

“Was he at least cute?” presses Wanda, interrupting your thoughts.

“No,” you reply. “He was _gorgeous_.”

Wanda looks positively aghast and you sigh, slumping in your seat. Propping your hand under your chin, you think back to James.

“He had these soulful blue eyes, Wanda,” you lament. “And the sharpest jawline. Honestly, he was so pretty I didn’t know if I wanted to take a polaroid of his face or sit on it.”

The chuckle behind you is quiet but unmistakable. A deep rumble that makes your belly flip and your eyes widen until they’re roughly the size of saucers. Wanda purses her lips as you peek at her through your fingers.

“He’s behind me, isn’t he?”

Wanda peers over your shoulder.

“Soulful blue eyes, sharp jawline, a face you want to sit on,” she reels through the checklist. “Yes, Y/N, I think he’s behind you.”

You want to stab Wanda with your wine glass.

You swivel around when James puts a hand down on the bar beside you, the silver of his Rolex just visible beneath his jacket sleeve. Your eyes trail up the length of his arm to his eyes, finding that he’s starting at you intently.

“You really should stop following me.”

“You were upset,” he replies quietly. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You’re taken by surprise at his admission. It’s earnest, perhaps the gentlest you’ve seen this brooding, brickhouse of a man and you can’t help but smile softly. He beckons at the stool.

“May I?”

You nod and James slides on to it smoothly. His hand reaches out, picking up your glass and bringing it up to his face. He swills the wine around, sniffing it before quipping a brow and pushing it back across the bar towards Wanda. Glancing at the shelf behind her, he points to a bottle in the middle.

“The Red Sancerre, please.”

Wanda is bewildered, practically awed as she retrieves the black bottle and uncorks it. James insists on pouring it himself, and she winks in your direction as she places down two glasses. You watch him pour two equal glassfuls and hand you the first.

“I think you’ll like this one.”

You want to admonish him for presuming to know you so well, but the words die away when you take a sip. It slips down easily, your tastebuds humming at how much better it is than the cheap stuff you normally resort to. James’ toying smirk doesn’t escape you, but you refuse to back down so easily.

“And why’s that?”

“It suits you.” he answers, voice as smooth as the wine. “Wins men and women alike over with smarts, looks, and charm. It's romantic and intoxicating. It's sex in a glass.”

You shouldn’t be so charmed by him, but your head is swimming with his deep voice and he’s a vision sipping wine whilst swathed in candlelight; his muscular legs parted invitingly and it’s tearing away at your resolve. Still, you haven’t been reduced to a giggling schoolgirl just yet, so you boldly take another sip of your wine and fix him with a fierce gaze.

“Are you hoping to change my mind about your _offer_?”

“No, but I’d like you to consider it. I didn’t explain myself well, I want to clarify what I meant.”

“And if after consideration, I still say no?”

“Then I’ll respect your decision and you’ll never see me again.”

You observe James, but your instincts don’t detect any reason to be afraid. He hasn’t given you any reason to doubt his honesty so you nod your agreement to hear him out.

You learn that his names is James Buchanan Barnes, but apparently, everyone calls him Bucky. (You quickly decide you don’t want to be like everyone else.) He’s a lawyer, heading up the European division of his firm here in Paris. It’s been a year since his last relationship ended and he’s not looking to jump into anything serious. He knows other people who have similar arrangements in place but this is the first time he has ever expressed his interest. That catches your attention and you’re blurting out the question before you can stop yourself.

“Why me?”

“You intrigue me,” he grins. “You inspired me to get back into art. You have this beauty that’s… compelling. You’re beautiful in a very natural, real way.”

James renders you speechless and his little smirk tells you he knows it. There’s nothing false about his charm though, it’s not an act or some ploy to trick you. As if to prove himself, he rakes his eyes over you and you’re thankful you’re clothed this time because it feels as if your whole body has gone up in flames. You’re not quite ready to say yes, though.

“So, how does it work?” you question. “You give me cash and I have to be the Anastasia Steele to your Christian Grey?”

“I’d never force you,” he says firmly, looking you in the eye. “It has to be consensual otherwise it’s not happening.”

James is quite serious about the matter and you appreciate it.

“Although, I’m not sure I appreciate the Fifty Shades comparison.” he chuckles, sipping his wine. “This arrangement isn’t necessarily _that_ kind of unconventional. This isn’t about me controlling or manipulating you, Y/N.”

It’s the first time he’s said your name and it sounds like honey the way it rolls off his tongue. Your pulse races, your mind flashing with images of him moaning it in the heat of the moment.

“Can I ask you something?” he says and you nod. “What was your first impression of me?”

You giggle into your wine and he looks at you curiously, his grin dipping to one side cheekily.

“That you were beautiful,” you muse and his grin widens. “Beautiful and alluring, in an almost dangerous way.”

James seems pleased. You wonder why. He’s attractive, he must have women falling to his feet all the time. And yet, even as the thought crosses your mind, you’re somewhat pleased yourself that out of all those women, it’s _you_ that he’s interested in. You tilt your head to one side, drinking him in.

“There is one thing, James.”

“Of course, what do you need to know?”

“What you’re like as a lover.”

James straightens up, an ocean raging in his blue eyes. He’s not quite sure if you’re mocking him, so you quell his fears with a teasing jibe.

“Well, it’s all very well you wanting to spoil me,” you elaborate. “But I need to know if you paying my bills is worth the sex.”

 

* * *

You live across the street from Wanda’s wine bar, in a corner apartment on the fifth floor of a building that doesn’t have an elevator. It’s not much, but you call it home. The scuffed windows that run the length of the two outside walls offer a view of the courtyard below and the street as well. Most days, you prefer not to waste electricity, basking in the light that streams through instead. A threadbare couch sits in front of a coffee table littered with newspapers, polaroids and pens you once thought possessed a magic to turn you into a brilliant writer. A bathtub stands freely under one of the windows, and at the far end of the open space is a mattress on the floor. It’s not dirty, simply messy. The home of a creative.

James’ footsteps echo against the bare wooden floor. Although he’s silently observing his surroundings, you’re wondering how his own apartment compares. You’re not ashamed in the slightest, you’re quite happy here, but it’s not the five star accommodation he must be familiar with. Having said that, the window above the bathtub does offer a beautiful view of the neighbourhood. You stop in front of it, customers spilling out of Wanda’s bar on to the cobbled street.

Footsteps halt behind you and James’ delicious scent engulfs you once more. Your heart is racing erratically, your breath hitching when he sweeps your hair to one side. He runs his nose down the length of your neck, his fingers curling around your hips. His lips ghost over a particularly sensitive spot and you gasp, your hands pressed to the cold window to stop your knees from buckling. In the reflection of the glass, his eyes meet yours.

James doesn’t say anything, but he keeps his eyes on yours as his fingers glide up your sides. They reach the buttons on your shirt, lazily undoing each one as his lips continue to trail over the sensitive skin of your neck. His stubble tickles in the most delightful way and you whimper as he nips at a spot in the crook of your neck, dragging his tongue over the forming bruise. His left is tracing circles on your bared skin as his right works at the fastening on your jeans.

James chuckles into your shoulder when you step out the denim hurriedly, but your brain is too foggy with desire to care. You haven’t even kissed yet and he’s driving you crazy with the feel of his rough fingers skimming across your thighs. The intensity in his eyes has you parting your legs, and you’re treated to that sexy chuckle again.

“I could fuck you like this,” he whispers, fingers dancing along the hem of your underwear. “Right in front of this window. Watch you come apart in the reflection while you wonder if those people down on the street can see what I’m doing to you.”

“ _James_.”

His name is all you can manage, his words are fuel to the fire that’s burning low in your belly. His hips press into yours and you gasp at the feel of his hardness through his jeans. Instinctively, you press back and he growls lowly, any semblance of rationality you had fleeing at the sound. There’s a haziness in his eyes now, and he grazes his fingertips along your inner thigh. You mewl audibly when he brushes them over the fabric of your underwear, teasing you through the material.

“You make such pretty noises, princess.”

The pet name alone is enough to rip a moan from your throat. Your head is spinning, blood gushing in your ears and you don’t realise he’s tugged your underwear down until his fingers brush over your clit. He circles it slowly and your head falls back against his shoulder. He teases you until you’re all but begging him, and only then does he oblige. With that devilish smirk on his lips, he slides one finger in, and then another, the heel of his hand rubbing against your clit.

“You’re so wet, princess.” he whispers in your ear. “So hot and tight.”

“ _James_!”

His name falls mindlessly from your lips as you fall over the edge of ecstasy, the pleasure overwhelmingly unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. James is still holding on to you when your heart has finally slowed enough for you to lift your head, pressing soft kisses into your neck. He stops when you meet his gaze in the reflection again, lifting his fingers to his mouth and sucking the taste of you off him.

James Barnes is going to be the death of you.

Turning around slowly to face him, you take in his hungry expression. His blue eyes have almost blackened with lust and your eyes flutter down to his pink lips. He doesn’t give you another warning before crashing them down on yours. You can taste the red wine from earlier, and you’re helpless but to melt against him. James wastes no time tasting you, his tongue prying your lips apart in a kiss that’s demanding. There’s no hesitation, he’s ruthless in the best way and you let the kiss consume you.

Strong arms wrap around you and you squeak when you’re hoisted up, but James claims your mouth in another kiss before depositing you on your mattress. You watch, entranced by the way he pulls his t-shirt off, baring a built chest and defined muscles. You’re blushing but you don’t realise it, too engrossed in the way he pulls his jeans and boxers off in one fluid motion. As he retrieves a condom from his wallet, you cast your own shirt and bra aside. You shiver in the slight chill, but then James is on top of you, and you mewl at the feel of his hot skin on yours. His eyes find yours, almost as if he’s seeking permission and it makes you giggle, until he pulls your hips up and slams into you.

“Holy hell, princess.” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You moan in response, arching your back. He lays still for a moment, letting you adjust to the feel of him. Only when you squirm beneath him does he move. It’s slow, agonisingly so, but it feels _exquisite_ and he soon has you begging him for more.

“James, _please_.”

He groans into your neck, louder when your fingernails bite into his shoulders. His head dips to take a nipple in his mouth, his fingers pinching and rolling the other and you writhe, an intense mix of pain and pleasure shooting down to your core. You cry out as you feel your second orgasm approaching and you can sense James is almost there too, his thrusts growing sloppy.

“Let go, princess.”

His command is your undoing. Your mind goes blank. You fall apart at the seams, overwhelmed by James and surrendering to everything he wants to give you. The feel of you coming around him is too much, and you watch as he tumbles into bliss shortly after you, your name a mere growl on his lips. His breath tickles with his pants, and your heart is still racing at a million miles an hour when he raises his head.

“I need to clean up,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Stay here.”

James is unabashed, still naked as he makes his way over to the bathroom. You lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling as you commit the night to your memory. He returns with a damp washcloth and you’re surprised by how tenderly he attends to you. Your feelings beginning to overwhelm you once more, you mumble an excuse about needing the bathroom. Leaning against the closed door, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding in. You take your time, mind reminiscing about his offer all the while.

When you emerge, James is lying on top of the messy bed sheets, an arm tucked under his head as he lazily scrolls through his phone. His hair is a mess, his pink lips swollen and he hasn’t bothered to put his clothes back on. God, he really is so _handsome_. You were in a rush earlier, but you take the opportunity now to drink in the beautiful man naked in your bed.

He notices. Of course he notices. His phone is thrown aside and he’s beckoning you over with a crooked finger and an equally crooked grin. You lay down beside him, unsure of the protocol but he pulls you close, your head on his chest.

“So,” he grins, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Good enough to pay your bills?”

You burst out laughing but he only dances his eyebrows suggestively. Humming, you trail your fingers through the soft smattering of hair under his collarbone. His tone is lighthearted, playful even, but it’s a serious matter and you roll on to your front, looking him in the eyes.

“Yes.” you confirm quietly. “Yes, I’d like to take you up on your offer.”

James nods, smiling contently but he doesn’t leap about with joy either.

“Sleep on it.” he suggests, reaching for the covers. “And in the mornin’, if you still feel the same, we’ll lay some ground rules, okay?”

Smiling at how respectful he is towards your decision making, you lay back down and inhale in him. His chest rises and falls with every breath, drowsiness beginning to overcome you. Only when he’s on the brink of sleep does he shift out from under you, putting space in between you both. But he doesn’t stray far; rolling on to his side and giving you one final lazy smirk before your eyes drift closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	4. Quatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and James lay down some ground rules.
> 
> Smut Warnings: dirty talk, oral sex, semi-public sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. I'm so thrilled by your response and feel a smidge more comfortable getting down to more smutty business. I'm determined to give writing all kinds of smut a go, so please do jot down any ideas you may have for me. I love hearing from you all.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

The bed is cosy, the sun warm on his skin. He’s been content to drift in and out of consciousness for the past ten minutes. But now, the light is too strong to ignore. It’s with great reluctance that Bucky opens his eyes. He blinks in the sudden sunshine, taking a couple of minutes to adjust to the unfamiliar surroundings.

He’s greeted by exposed metal beams in the ceiling and windows that could do with a good clean. A stack of books serve as a bedside table; they house a half-empty packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, a tube of red lipstick and currently, his watch. There’s a few plant pots placed along the floor, and he narrows his eyes at what he _thinks_ is a great, fluffy cat sniffing suspiciously at his shoes.

You’re sitting at the foot of the mattress, sunshine streaking through your hair in sharp lines. You run a hand through it, tousling the already messy locks and Bucky raises his head, realising you’re yet to put on any clothes and he delights in it. His eyes trace your exposed curves and he’s stirring beneath the covers. You pull the pen from between your teeth and continue scribbling in your maroon notebook. A smile graces his face. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but he refuses to disturb your peace.

“What are you staring at, Mr. Barnes?” comes your voice, your eyes still awash with the magic of whatever you’re writing.

“You,” he replies boldly, propping himself up on his elbows. “I wish I had my sketchbook, you look gorgeous like this.”

You close your notebook with a _snap_ and crawl up the mattress. Bucky is treated to your breasts hanging invitingly in his face as you reach across him. Before he can take advantage of the situation, you’re tucking a cigarette between his lips and lighting a match. He takes a few puffs before you pluck the cigarette for yourself, lying beside him on your stomach. Silence has engulfed you both, but it’s not awkward in the slightest. It’s the kind of serene he has forgotten existed. He lies in the cocoon of your perfume, his eyes and hands free to roam your body as they please.

“So, last night,” he says, the final ember of your cigarette burning out. “You thought any more ‘bout it?”

“I have.” you reply with an air of mystery. “My answer is still yes.”

Bucky can’t help the grin that erupts on his face and it’s not just because you’re lying across him now, your breasts dragging across his chest. You’ve noticed, judging by your own grin, although that might be because his hands have found a ticklish spot on your side.

“Does that mean I changed your mind?” he teases, earning a roll of your eyes.

“No,” you scoff half-heartedly. “I simply took your offer into consideration.”

“Consideration my ass.”

Bucky chuckles when you squeal, his large hands squeezing your ass playfully. You feel so soft, so delicate and so heavenly. He’s only had you for one night and God, he already wants more. Images of last night flit through his memory but he stops himself before he gets carried away. As much as he wants you under him, moaning his name as he ravishes you, he has to honour his word.

“Why don’t we get some breakfast?” he murmurs, fingers gliding up your naked back. “Lay down those ground rules?”

“I normally just have a cup of coffee for breakfast. I can run down to the _supermarché_ and get you something?”

“That’s not gonna work for me.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Bucky is sliding into a chair at a little cafe called _Claus_. He insists you take the booth seat, the couch far more comfortable. Your nervous glance doesn’t go by unnoticed, and he briefly wonders if he should reassure you that you aren’t out of place. If anything, you belong here amongst the contemporary French interior. You’re wearing black jeans and a white t-shirt, your hair still tousled and a quick dab of red lipstick on your mouth. It’s understated, sexy in a subtle way and perhaps that’s why he likes it so much.

For the first time in twelve months, Bucky’s _excited_ . And dare he say, _happy_ . Alright, perhaps a large percentage of that excitement is simply animalistic desire but with such a beautiful woman like you can you blame him? He’s already planned out all the different ways he wants to draw you, not to mention all the different ways he wants to _take_ you, and it’s all so _exciting_.

Bucky realises he’s forgotten all about the menu in his hands, too preoccupied with observing you, as the waiter approaches ready to take an order. You’re gnawing at your bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed.

“I can’t decide between the _roesti avec saumon fumé_ or the _Pancake Bavarois_.” you muse.

The waiter offers his two cents before Bucky holds his menu up.

“She’ll have both,” he orders, your jaw dropping. “And I’ll have the same.”

He orders a pot of coffee, orange juice and a bread basket for good measure amidst your protests. He merely shrugs in response, citing that he’ll eat whatever you don’t. He likes food and he’s not shy about it.

“You know this is how it’s gonna work, right?” he quips as you sip your coffee. “I’m gonna spend money on you.”

“Yes, but, ordering me three types of breakfast is a little extravagant.” you argue, fingers dithering over the bread basket.

“I don’t think you get it, babygirl, I _want_ to spoil you.”

Bucky is amused that your cheeks colour pink. You seem to like the pet names, and he likes the reaction they elicit from you. You squirm in your seat, shooting him a glare which only succeeds in widening his grin. He knows he’s a cheeky bastard and he’s not about to stop any time soon.

“I thought you were going to cover my rent? Pay my bills, that sort of thing.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t spoil you.”

He stops chuckling when your brows furrow.

“Hey,” he says softly, meeting your eyes. “This isn’t eye for an eye, you know. It doesn’t mean you’re obligated to do more for me. You understand that, right?”

“What _do_ you want from me?”

There is no rudeness in your voice, not so much as a hint of malice. Bucky admires your openness and he tells you as much. This arrangement is only as good as your honesty, so he does his best to be clear about his expectations. He knows exactly what he’s getting into, he just wants to make sure you do, too. Having said that, he doesn’t think you’re the kind of woman to play along and trick him into a relationship. You’re genuine, and from what he gathers, you’re not looking for a relationship either and that makes it all the easier.

“I wanna draw you,” he reiterates. “And I wanna fuck you.”

He pauses to take a sip of his coffee.

“Anything beyond that’s just me spoiling you. Nice restaurants, parties, shoes…”

You appear to be processing his words, letting them sink in as you cut up your food and chew it slowly. Bucky reminds you he will pay your rent and your bills, plus an extra thousand a week at which point you choke on your orange juice.

“For what?” you gasp.

“Your time,” he replies obviously. “You’re gonna be sittin’ there posing for me, aren’t you?”

“ _Yes_ , but I thought…”

Bucky waves a hand airily. It’s only fair, the academy would be paying you for your time so why should this arrangement be any different? At first he’s worried you think it’s not enough, a thousand is pocket change to a man like him but you’re quite insistent that’s all you need, even throwing in a little joke that for that much money he can do whatever he wants to you.

“Careful what you wish for, sweetheart.” he says huskily, eyes darkening devilishly.

You squirm under his heated gaze and Bucky is suddenly finished with breakfast, his interest lies elsewhere now. But, he chooses to wait patiently and allow you to finish eating your croissant. You’re teasing him, licking jam off your finger. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as you draw your finger into your mouth, your eyes trained on his as you suck the red jelly off. You hum blissfully and he feels the strain in his jeans.

It takes Bucky precisely ten minutes to exact his revenge. No sooner do you step out the cafe that he tugs your hand and you find yourself tumbling down a deserted side street. He swallows your gasp, crashing his lips down on yours in a bruising kiss. He wants to drive you as crazy you do him. He wants you out of your mind with desire and he wastes no time pulling your jeans and underwear to your ankles, promising kisses being pressed in your thighs.

“ _Shit_ , princess,” he growls. “You smell so damn sweet.”

You purr in response, whimpering when he nips at your inner thigh. That one will bruise and the thought spurs him on. He groans at your nails scratching his scalp, fingers yanking at his hair incessantly as his mouth draws closer to your core. You’re _so_ damn wet already and he can’t find it in him to tease you, he’ll save that for that later.

“Bet you taste just as sweet.”

“ _James_ ,” you sigh, head thrown back against the brick wall. “James I- oh my _God_!”

Bucky chuckles to himself but the rumble of it only makes you moan louder. He knows he should quieten you but right now he couldn’t care less if the whole damn neighbourhood heard just how good he’s making you feel. You’re writhing as he runs his tongue over you, pausing to swirl around your throbbing clit. He loves how responsive you are, how you don’t hold back in letting the pleasure consume you. He rewards you with a harsh flick of his tongue, his hands pinning your hips to the wall as your breathy whimpers plead him.

Bucky obliges eagerly, growling as he dips his tongue deep in your core, lapping at your arousal. His stubble rubs deliciously against your soft skin as he glides his fingers in you, remembering how your tight heat felt around his cock last night. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks and he can feel how close you are as he flicks his tongue faster against your bundle of nerves.

It’s when he draws it into his mouth, sucking softly that you finally come. Bucky doesn’t slow down, his mouth still on you as you ride the hot waves of pleasure that roll through you. He’s in heaven, hearing the pretty noises that escape from your lips, the hot flush that’s spread over your skin, the way your fingers tangle with his hair. A string of curses follow and he chuckles, leaving sweet kisses over your thighs before pulling your jeans back up.

“ _Putain_ , James,” you pant, opening one eye and he chuckles again.

Your hand brushes over the bulge in his jeans and he groans, grabbing your wrist to still your movements. There’s confusion etched on your face and he smiles weakly.

“I have to get to work.”

“But,  _you_ …”

“Tonight.” he whispers huskily, smirking at your shudder. “Tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	5. Cinq

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You tell Wanda about your arrangement. James asks you to meet him.
> 
> Smut Warnings: champagne play, dirty talk, ice play, oral sex, vaginal fingering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut, readers. There's a certain freedom attached to Europe and Paris in particular. I'm not sure if it's just me or if that is the general consensus, but I think there's definitely more openness in Paris and attitudes towards sex aren't as strict. I hope that comes across in my story.
> 
> As always, please do leave comments! It makes my day to hear what you think.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

****Considering the six texts and three missed calls to her name, it’s not exactly a surprise to find Wanda floating around your apartment. She’s rooting through the fridge, not that there’s much to find there. The last time you checked, it was a bottle of white wine, salted butter and a couple of carrots. Upon hearing the scrape of your key in the lock, she lets out a high-pitched scream.

“Where have you been?” she demands excitedly. “I called you! Your apartment smells like him, you know and- _is that a hickey_?”

Wanda pounces on you, her strength taking you by surprise as she tries to lower the neck of your t-shirt enough to expose the purple love bite and you dodge her.

“Let me breathe, would you Wanda?”

You’re granted a grand total of thirty seconds reprieve before Wanda explodes again, eyes alight with the prospect of juicy gossip. You roll your eyes, but in truth, it’s all an act. You’re bursting to share your secrets with your best friend. She grimaces at the unmade bed, so you both end up sitting in the bathtub, your legs dangling out as you drink Wanda’s favourite jasmine tea.

“Alright, I want to know everything,” she orders. “Please tell me he’s as good in bed as I think he is.”

You look at her incredulously and she snorts, hot tea spraying from her nose rather unattractively and dousing her cardigan. She only laughs harder, wriggling out of it because she’s a woman on a mission and nothing will stop her from hearing you spill all your dirty little secrets.

“Oh, come on, Y/N!” she jeers. “You just have to look at him to know he’s _filthy_. In the best way, of course.”

There’s no argument there. Your rebuttal consists of you smirking pointedly over the rim of your cup and she squeals, grabbing your arm and jostling you until you elaborate. No detail is spared, you recount your night of passion with James and the arrangement that follows, her face mirroring your own amazement.

“ _Ta geule_!” she cries. “Shut the fuck up!”

French, English… she says it in both languages, even in her native Sokovian but it’s still somehow not enough to convey the magnitude of the situation. You hum into your tea as Wanda leans her head back against the wall.

“Your life is like a movie, Y/N.” she marvels.

“I moved to Paris to be an intellectual.” you laugh back. “A writer, or a photographer at the very least.”

“And instead you find yourself living out Pretty Woman.”

“I’m not a prostitute, Wanda!”

“For a man like James Barnes, I gladly would be.”

Wanda is so serious in her manner that you can’t help but burst out laughing. She grins, turning to face you properly so she can press you for further details but you shake your head.

“The less I know about him the better,” you say firmly. “It makes it easier to cut ties. This isn’t a relationship.”

“Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”

You are curious. Of course you are. But before you can deny it there’s a resounding knock on the door and you almost spill the final dregs of your tea. Wanda jumps up after you, her thoughts running along the same track as yours. Smoothing down your t-shirt, you try not to wrench the door open nor look disappointed when it’s not James on your doorstep.

A slim built man smiles genially down at you from his great height. His neatly combed blonde hair matches his smart suit rather aptly and you hazard a guess he’s in his late thirties. He’s wearing glasses with lightly tinted lenses, but he pulls them off with a warm smile and his very presence seems to put you at ease.

“ _Bonjour_ , _mademoiselle_.” he greets in a perfect accent. “You must be Miss. Y/L/N. My name is Jarvis, I’m Mr. Barnes’ assistant.”

“Nice to meet you, Jarvis.”

“And you, _mademoiselle_.” he says, bowing his head. “If I may, I have some packages for you per Mr. Barnes’ request.”

It’s only then that you notice the neatly piled boxes stacked next to Jarvis and you’re a little astounded that you somehow completely missed them earlier. Then you remember that your building has no elevator and this poor man must have carried them all up by himself. Guilt must be written all over your face because Jarvis is quick with words of comfort. Nevertheless, you insist on carrying the smaller ones inside.

Wanda is dumbstruck. You quickly learn it’s because her attention has been commanded by the tall, slender blonde man who looks as equally enamoured. Ridding himself of the final package, he extends a hand out to her and she takes it, giggling profusely when he raises it and presses a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

“ _Enchanté_ , _mademoiselle.”_ sings Jarvis.

“Wanda,” she introduces herself with pink cheeks. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss. Wanda.”

You quip an amused eyebrow as Wanda erupts in a fresh peal of giggles which Jarvis seems to appreciate. He reluctantly lets go of her hand and turns to face you once more.

“I trust everything will be in order, _mademoiselle_ Y/L/N. If I may be any of further assistance, please do not hesitate to call me.”

Jarvis pulls a business card from his pocket and hands it to you. You’re studying the fine craftsmanship of it, the high quality print and perfectly mixed ink but it’s not enough to distract you from the second card he pulls from his pocket, offering it to your friend before departing with a courteous bow of his head. Wanda has seemingly evolved into a teenage schoolgirl and you need only wink at her knowingly.

“He’s a little older than you.” you tease mercilessly.

“You’re one to talk!” she snorts. “James is older than you too!”

“And he knows exactly how to treat a woman.”

Your eyes drift over the packages patiently waiting for you. They’re all neatly wrapped in black paper and sealed with white ribbons. James certainly didn’t wrap them himself, it only adds to his wealthy status knowing that in the space of a short couple of hours he had his personal assistant execute all this for you. Wanda awaits your instructions and suddenly, you’re the teenage schoolgirl, squealing and diving for the presents.

“ _Putain_ , Wanda,” you swear. “It’s a MacBook!”

The shiny silver laptop is a stark contrast to the battered red Dell you’ve been carting around for more years than you’d care to admit. It’s a material gift, a very common one most likely, but you find sweetness in the gesture. James is a smart man, he’s well aware this laptop will aid your writing and photography like a dream. As much as you want to start it up immediately, Wanda’s excitement at the other presents is bubbling over.

The boxes are soon shelled off their wrappings, no thanks to both your overzealous efforts. No less than five bottles of the Red Sancerre wine sit on your kitchen shelf now. They had a note attached to them, detailing the grocery order due to arrive in half an hour. An assortment of notebooks by Monograph hold a place of pride on your bookshelf, matching pens standing in a pot on your desk. There’s a few candles which Wanda tells you are worth almost as much as the wine, a decadent feeling lighter (that one makes you laugh) and in the final box, a pair of Christian Louboutins.

You squeal and snatch them up, clutching them to your chest preciously. The heels are outrageously high, the shiny leather a patent black and the soles are the iconic red colour of your shopping fantasies. They’re very savoir-faire and you certainly feel like a real Parisian now. Your phone buzzes and you hand the heels over to Wanda, who gawks wordlessly.

JB: _Did you get my presents?_

Wanda takes that as her cue to leave, but not without a promise that you’ll tell her everything. Looking down at James’ text, you bite your lip, feeling emboldened. You end up perched in front of the floor length mirror in just your underwear, wearing the heels and your new laptop in front of you, your red lips curled in a smile just making an entrance in the selfie. You hit send before you have a chance to change your mind. The reply is instantaneous.

JB: _Jarvis will pick you up at 8. Wear the heels_.

* * *

James lives in a typical French building of the Haussmann archetype. It’s all intricate details and wrought iron balconies. You politely thank Jarvis as he shows you inside, wishing you a pleasant evening before making himself scarce. It’s probably for the best, because you can’t imagine how gobsmacked you look standing in the hall of James’ apartment.

It’s like something out of the Chateau de Versailles; gold chandeliers and mirrored walls, velvet cushions and tall white candles. You know he’s a wealthy man, but seeing it is a different story. Your heels click on the marble floor as you walk through the double doors into the lounge, finding James there. He’s standing in front of the enormous window that offers a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower, lit up and dazzling in all its glory across the inky blue sky.

Almost as breathtaking as James. He’s wearing a powder blue shirt, three buttons undone to offer you a teasing glimpse of his broad chest. It’s tucked into grey suit pants and sure enough, there’s a jacket and a tie thrown over the armrest of a nearby couch. He turns around at the sound of your footsteps, still jabbering away on the phone. You feel a swell of pride when his eyes rake over you appreciatively, eyes darkening at the sight of your heels. It’s then, that he rather abruptly ends his conversation and unceremoniously casts his phone aside.

“You wanted me,” you simper. “Here I am.”

“Come here, princess.”

You take your time to strut over to James, his low voice setting off butterflies in your belly. He arches his eyebrow. It makes him look dangerous, wolfish, but you’d let him devour you alive without a second’s hesitation when he looks so damned handsome. He licks his lips when you stop in front of him, and you’re _aching_ for him to touch you. He doesn’t. He just smirks.

“Strip,” he orders. “Leave the heels on.”

James has you sitting in the window seat, the Eiffel Tower just visible from the corner of your eye. He’s on the couch opposite, a sketchbook splayed across his left hand, the right one moving his pencil gracefully across the page. A bottle of champagne is chilling in an ice bucket beside you and there’s music playing in the background, jazz, you think, but it does little to interrupt you.

“What do you do to pass the time?” asks James, eyes flicking between you and his sketchbook. “Does it get awkward, sittin’ in silence?”

“I study the artist as much as he studies me.” you reply slyly.

James grins and continues with his drawing.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks. “Posing for life drawing isn’t the first thing most people think of.”

“It’s… liberating.” you reply, trying to articulate the feeling. “Artists don’t judge women’s bodies harshly the same way men do.”

“Men who judge women’s bodies don’t appreciate beauty.”

James speaks in a low that makes you shiver. His blue eyes are gleaming as he stands up and makes his way over to you. You fight the urge to reach out and touch him, the craving to feel his skin on yours is bordering on desperation now that he’s looking at you with a heated gaze but still, he maintains an agonising distance. Popping the cork off the champagne, he pours you a glass.

“And you do?” you dare. “You appreciate beauty?”

“You make it easy to.”

And then he’s back in his seat to resume his drawing. Silence engulfs you once more so you seize the opportunity to study him, just as you said. It’s a little easier to read him in the comfort of his own home. He’s older than you, much older, but the age difference is meaningless. You find that the sparse grey hairs peppering his stubble only add to his attractiveness, as do the creases in the corners of his eyes. He likes to take care of himself; a scheduled haircut, the odd manicure and regular hours at the gym. Even his stubble is perfectly groomed.

“You alright there, princess?”

Your eyes snap out of their haze and you nod, taking a sip of the champagne.

“Just admiring the view.”

James eyes the glass as you put it down. A deep stain of your red lipstick adorns the rim and you spy a muscle in his jaw twitch. No doubt, he’s imagining you leaving a similar mark elsewhere. You can’t help but smirk as he places his sketchbook to one side and struts over to you.

“Don’t I get to see your masterpiece?”

“‘S not as good as the real thing.”

Your breath catches as he crashes his mouth down on yours, hands winding themselves in your hair as his lips fuse with yours hungrily. You cling to him as desire begins to cloud your judgement, the Eiffel Tower behind you forgotten. He’s making good on his promise to devour you, kissing you with a possessive passion that coaxes a moan out of you. You’re breathless when he pulls away, peeking at him through heavily lidded eyes. Half your lipstick is smeared over his face but he pays it no attention, looking at you like he wants to eat you alive.

James’ hand pushes you down until you’re lying before him, every inch of you presented to him. You feel exposed, your naked body on offer to him but he puts you at ease as his hands glide over your heels. You accept his wolfish smirk and then he dips his head to press his lips to your ankle, the first of many kisses he places on his trail up your body. Your breath comes out as mere pants, the mix of James’ soft lips and coarse scruff setting your skin ablaze. You’re trembling with need, craving more than just his heated kisses.

Danger dances in James’ eyes, complementing his devilish grin. It all becomes clear when he reaches for the champagne and tips the bottle. You gasp loudly, your back arching as the bubbly drips over your breasts. James’ lips wrap around your nipple, sucking at the champagne, tongue swirling around the hardened peak and you cry out his name. He rolls the other nipple between his fingers but you’re pinned down beneath his weight, unable to do much except give into him. He tips the bottle again, mouth following the flow of champagne and you writhe, hips bucking into his to try and ease the growing ache between your legs.

“Patience, princess.” he growls.

Arousal thickens the air, his tongue sweeping over your collarbone and you just about hear a small _clink_ over your moan. Cold suddenly bites at your breasts and you squeal, but James holds you down. He holds your gaze as he clenches an ice cube between his teeth, circling closer and closer to your nipple. He’s in the mood to tease you, relishing the way you fist your hands in his hair and arch into his touch. It’s painful in the most pleasurable way, the two sensations send you into overdrive and you can’t think straight, begging him for release.

“James, _please_.”

Your begs, music to his ears, go by ignored and he continues to draw the ice cube over your breasts. It’s all so intense, he’s ruthless in his passion and you’re worried it’s all too much.

“ _James_!”

“ _Please_ , _James_!”

“ _I don’t know how much longer I can hold on_ , _James_!”

“Bet you could come just like this, couldn’t you, princess?” he murmurs. “Bet if I touch you just right, you’ll come.”

Now you know why all those romance novels use the word ‘ravished’, because that’s exactly how you feel. _Ravished_. James barely knows you and yet he has each nerve in your body singing as he draws out every sensation. His fingers are still grazing over the tender skin of your breasts as he raises his head to look at you.

“Have you ever come this way before?” he asks and you shake your head.

“Another time,” he promises. “Right now, I wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

“Oh my God, _James_.”

You give in mere minutes after his thumb finds your clit, fingers pumping in and out of you all the while you chanting his name like some sort of mantra. Every move has electric shocks coursing through you. James is driving you insane and you’re a mess, needy with mindless lust. You feel a scream building in your throat as he whispers filthy nothings into your ear and then he finds a spot inside you that has your body convulsing around his fingers as an ecstasy you’ve never felt before shatters you. Seemingly never-ending waves of excruciating bliss storm through you until you’re lying in a heap, limp and dizzy.

James doesn’t wait for you to regain your senses. Instead, he pulls you into his lap, expression as dark as the devil.

“We’re not done yet, princess.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You return the favour. James has no complaints.
> 
> Smut Warnings: dirty talk, dry humping, light d/s themes, oral sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. This and the last chapter are probably the most filthy things I've ever written. I suspect I'll probably get filthier, (gratuitous Bucky smut and all that) but it's nice to test the waters as I don't usually write anything like this. It's fun though, and I would love to hear what you think of it. Does it work? Is there anything you'd like to see? Please do leave comments, it's so lovely to hear from you and chat with you in the comments.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

James has a wild look in his eyes and it renews your arousal. It’s the first thing you register as the fog lifts from your head and you find yourself in a position you could certainly get used to. The view of Paris through the window is simply too stunning to ignore. Night has well and truly fallen, lights illuminating the rooftops that are so close you could step out on to them. But, that only holds your attention for a matter of seconds, the man you’re straddling is far more beautiful.

“You sure know how to treat a girl, Mr. Barnes.”

James’ eyes darkens at your words, fingers digging into your hips rather noticeably at the authoritative way you address him. He’s certainly full of surprises; you love discovering all these sexy secrets he’s hidden away. You wonder what other kinks he has. You brace yourself on his shoulders, flashing a coy smile for his benefit as you begin to drag your fingers down his chest. When you open your mouth, you’re sure to use a sultry voice that promises him all the passion he’s shown you.

“You know, I really should thank you for the presents.”

“Yeah?” he grins keenly. “How d’you plan to do that?”

You sigh exaggeratedly, as if solving an intricate puzzle. Your fingers languidly unfasten the buttons of his shirt, exposing more and more of his toned chest.

“Oh, I had a few ideas,” you reply breezily. “They all end the same way, though.”

Taking his right hand, you draw his two fingers into your mouth, softly sucking the taste of you off him, your tongue swirling over his fingertips as you look at him, innocently batting your eyelashes. James’ expression turns greedy; you don’t think anyone’s ever looked at you with such unabashed want before and just like that, you feel your muscles clench at nothing, craving him between your legs again. But, you maintain your self-control, wanting to see _him_ lose it this time.

“What do you think, Mr. Barnes?” you ask, releasing his fingers with a small _pop_. “Do you want my pretty little mouth on your cock?”

The moan that escapes from James is almost inhuman, primal. His lashes flutter against his cheeks but he can’t seem to take his eyes off you as you slide down to your knees, palming the hardness in his pants. You have him right where you want him and the thought makes you smirk. His hands sit in clenched fists by his side as you free him of his pants and boxers, sitting back on your knees to admire him.

James is a gorgeous man, all lean muscle and lithe definition. His skin hints at a fading tan, probably from a holiday somewhere exotic, freckles dotted here and there. The hard line of his jaw clenches, chest rising with laboured breathing because he’s painfully hard and already leaking a little. He gives you a pleading look and you giggle mischievously, rising to run your hands over his muscled thighs. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses across his chest and your tongue traces the defined lines of his stomach, his muscles flexing beneath you as you work your way down the fine trail of hair on his navel, stopping just short of where he’s desperate to have your mouth.

You pause, only for a moment, only to look up at him with innocent eyes. That earns you a frustrated growl, a shade of red blossoming over his skin. He open his mouth, most likely to huff a command of some kind, but you lean forward, gripping the base of his cock and sucking the head into your mouth.

“Fucking _fuck_ , babygirl.”

James chokes out a string of curses, his head thrown back and you hum, lips still wrapped around him as you take him in your mouth deeper, earning a gasp of your name. He opens his eyes just long enough to watch his length disappear, shuddering and cursing as you move faster, tongue teasing and he jerks his hips up in an attempt to fuck your mouth. He tastes every bit as you imagined he would, salty and musky and something distinctly _James_. His hand sweeps your hair aside and you chance a glance up at him. He looks so far gone and you redouble your efforts, sucking him harder until he stammers out an incoherent warning, spilling down your throat and moaning in a way you’ve never heard before.

Slowly, you draw your mouth back, not without one final lick of his cock and he sits there, slumped as he tries to steady his breathing. Somehow, he looks more handsome than ever. A sheen of sweat slicks his chest, lips almost red from how hard he’s been biting them and eyes closed, a few tendrils of hair stuck to his forehead. More than anything, he looks sated and relaxed, the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him and there’s that swell of pride again, knowing that _you’re_ the one who’s made him feel this good.

James blearily opens his eyes, huffing slightly as you sit beside him and sip your champagne nonchalantly.

“Thank you for my presents, Mr. Barnes.” you say sweetly and he curses.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he growls hoarsely. “You’re so... _fuck_.”

Your giggle turns into a squeak when he picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder and marching from the room. You squirm, trying to see where he’s taking you but he swats at your ass; the sharp sting of his hand makes you squeal. He chuckles darkly, throwing you down on his enormous bed. He has that wolfish grin again as he towers over you, familiar heat coiling in your belly and you rub your thighs together, desperate to relieve some of the tension.

“You’re _insatiable_ , princess.”

James claims your mouth in a frenzied kiss, tugging your bottom lip between his teeth and biting down hard enough that it’s on the pleasurable side of pain and you moan his name.

“The fuckin’ mouth on you.” he whispers, hands already travelling down on your body.

“You seemed to enjoy it.” you cheek, before adding on a flirtatious, “ _Mr_. _Barnes_.”

James curses again, smirking against your neck when he finds a particularly sensitive spot and latches on to it, tongue soothing the sharp nip of his teeth. You squirm underneath him, biting down on his shoulder and he chuckles wickedly. You want his lips on you, not just on your neck but _everywhere_. There are unspoken promises in his eyes and God, do you crave them. Your hand snakes in between your bodies, wrapping around his already hardening cock and he hisses.

“You’re trouble, you know that, princess?”

“I thought you liked trouble.”

James hums in agreement. His hands grabs yours, lifting them above your head and pinning your wrists to the mattress. He rocks his growing hardness against you and you whimper. You can feel yourself dripping wet for him as you wrap your legs around his waist, tightening your grip when he continues to rock against you, slowly bringing you to the brink without even being inside you.

“James.” you’re begging already, much to his delight.

“You’ll come like this.”

It’s a promise just as much as it’s a threat, his words a husky whisper in your ear as his scent intoxicates you until you’re dizzy with wanton need. You can feel his cock rubbing against you, against your clit and you rut against him shamelessly, wanting, no, _needing_ more. Your mind is starting to blank, the tension bordering on unbearable as he rocks faster.

“ _Fuck_ , babygirl,” he grunts, lips wrapping around a nipple. “You have any idea how sexy you look right now?”

You reply with a gasp and he chuckles, sucking the other nipple now. You can feel your orgasm beginning to flutter and James notices it too, urging you to come for him and his command is your undoing. Instinct seems to take over, your back arching off the bed, hands struggling to break free of his grasp as you all but scream his name. His hips stutter to a stop, patiently bringing you back down.

You stay that way, skin tingling and cheeks flushed with your hands above your head as James fumbles with a condom, rolling it down over his hard length before settling back on the bed.

“I don’t think I can come again.” you breathe, heart still racing.

“You can,” he says, seemingly relishing in the challenge. “And you will.”

You watch breathlessly as he strokes himself a few times before rolling on to his back and pulling you on top of him. You can’t help but moan as he slides you down on his length. You’re still so wet and he slides in easily, stilling when he’s fully sheathed inside you. You feel full, brimming and it’s so overwhelming. James has a hand curled around your hips, the other fingering your clit as he thrusts up in to you, encouraging you to move.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day,” he growls as you begin to rock your hips. “Could hardly concentrate in my meeting when all I could think about was you riding my cock.”

You feel yourself grow wetter at his words as you chase your high. James’ words are nothing short of filthy. He looks utterly delectable, splayed out beneath you with bright eyes and mussed hair.

“And then you sent me that picture,” he groans. “Got me hard as a fucking rock, princess. I had to go to my office, imagine it was your hand, fuck, I came so fast.”

You’re suddenly overwhelmed. James’ words and the dirty images they conjure up are enough to tip you over the edge, your nails scraping down his chest as you moan his name. He doesn’t relent, hips still thrusting into yours as he soon joins you, groaning as bliss consumes him too. You collapse on a heap, your face buried in the crook of his neck.

“ _Putain_ , James.”

* * *

It ends the same way it always does, with tangled bedsheets and shared cigarettes. James is drawing you again, something about wanting to capture “ _the way you look after a good fucking_ ”. Your hair is messy and your red lipstick long gone. Most of it is stained on his skin, but he’s too enamoured in his art to care. There’s a white bedsheet loosely draped around you, you had made to remove it but he insisted you keep it on; the teasing glimpse of your curves is just as sexy were his words.

You light your second cigarette, a knee propped up as you sit in front of James. You never cuddle for long, only enough to bask in the aftermath of your mind blowing sex. Which is probably for the best, it makes it easier to keep feelings at bay. He always makes sure to take care of you, though, fetching a warm washcloth and on this occasion, the remainder of the still-cold champagne. You’re a little tired now, perhaps not as much as James, whose eyes have already begun to droop.

“What?” he asks when you snicker.

“Are you feeling sleepy?” you tease, prodding him with your foot.

“You callin’ me an old man?” he jibes back playfully.

“You _are_ older than me,” you muse. “By almost ten years.”

“ _Almost_ ,” he grins. “But hey, I can keep up with a pretty young thing like you just fine.”

“That’s what all you old men say.” you laugh, stubbing out your cigarette.

“Yeah?” he asks curiously. “Sounds like you might have a thing for us _older_ _men_.”

“You’re not the first _older_ _man_ I’ve been with, if that’s what you’re getting at.” you smirk knowingly. “Nor the oldest, actually.”

“Now this I _gotta_ hear.”

“He was thirty five.” you admit, and he looks at you expectantly. “And I was twenty one.”

James is so sincere in his request, much unlike the ex-boyfriends you’ve shared the secret with before. He goggles at you, before erupting in amused laughter, wholeheartedly chortling before making a few good-natured jokes at your expense. It’s nothing you’ve not heard before, but hearing it from him puts you at ease. It’s nice to be yourself and not feel judged. Although, he’s in no place to judge considering your _arrangement_.

“Hey, I was young and he was very charming.” you say defensively, but you’re laughing too.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grins. “I think you just like us older guys.”

“Only the handsome, wealthy ones.” you wink.

James winks too, before he picks up his pencil once more. His eyes lift from the sketchbook and a smile crosses his face.

“What?” you ask, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “You’re just one of the coolest people I’ve met.”

James’ demeanour is almost shy, he looks younger beyond his years and you look at him curiously, wanting him to elaborate on what he means by “ _cool_ ”. He sighs, trying to string the right words together.

“I just… I wasn’t sure what to expect,” he explains, running a hand through his messy hair. “Some girls, I hear they become real spoilt brats, you know? But, you’re just… cool.”

“ _Cool_?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

You wink teasingly and he chuckles.

“Alright, you _are_ Parisian,” he offers and you take it as a big compliment. “You just live your life, you don’t give a shit what other people think. You just do what makes you happy.”

“Like smoke cigarettes and sleep with older men?” you giggle.

“D’you see this old man complaining?”

Setting the champagne aside, you smile appreciatively. Despite the nature of your arrangement, James doesn’t use it as an excuse to treat you any less. He’s honest and courteous, and hell, he just paid you the ultimate compliment. You take the sketchbook from his hands and carefully place it on the bedside table. He looks handsome, propped up in bed with pillows, nothing but the thin white sheet gathered around his waist. You straddle him, your arms looped around his neck as he looks up at you lazily. You pepper kisses along his jawline, feeling the twitch of his arousal on your thigh.

“How about now?” you whisper, scraping your teeth along his earlobe. “Any complaints now, Mr. Barnes?”

He groans out a “ _no_ ” and you trail your lips down, nuzzling into his neck as your fingers toy with his hair. You’ve since learned that it drives him crazy when you pull on it, so you do just that, eliciting another low moan.

“And now, Mr. Barnes. _Sir_?”

James is suddenly wide awake, the predatory look back in his eyes. Suffice to say, he has little to no complaints that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	7. Sept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James has a thoughtful morning. You're spoiled rotten.
> 
> Smut Warnings: dirty talk, light d/s themes, lingerie, rough sex, semi-public, spanking, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. Well, this chapter ended up a little longer than anticipated. I think I got carried away. 
> 
> I would absolutely love to hear what you think, your comments are always most welcome so please let me know if you're enjoying this story or not. Thank you to those of you who read and leave a comment, it is much more appreciated than I could ever express.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

Bucky’s a morning person, but he pales in comparison to you. He wonders what on earth possesses you to rise at such an ungodly hour, but there you are, awake at six o’clock in the morning and out on the terrace. You have a white sheet wrapped around you, the outline of what lies beneath visible to him as you bask in the sun, a dying cigarette in your fingers and the Champs-Élysées beneath your feet. Your hair dances in the light breeze and you close your eyes momentarily, content washing over your face. “ _Radiant_ ” is the only word that springs to his mind.

Bucky wriggles until he’s lying more comfortably in his king sized bed. He tucks an arm under his head, all the better to ogle you shamelessly as the night prior slowly comes back to him. He doesn’t think he’s ever had such a wildly passionate night before; not in college, not when backpacking through Europe, and certainly not when he had a steady relationship. There’s something about you that drives him _insane_ , conjuring up details of every sordid little thing he wants to do to you. Between your coy smiles and pert backside, it’s a wonder that his every thought isn’t consumed by you.

“You always up this early?” he croaks, voice gravelly with sleep.

You turn, that serene smile still on your face and he rather likes being the recipient of it. Abandoning the cigarette in a marble ashtray, you swan into the bedroom and back to bed, the sheet forgotten and your skin bare to him once more.

“ _Bon_ _matin_ to you, too.” you say. “I didn’t mean to wake you, you must be tired after I wore you out all night, old man.”

The prettiest giggles fill the room when he lunges for you, fingers scrabbling over your most ticklish spots and you squirm beneath him, begging him to stop.

“Ask nicely and I might.”

“Please,” you squeal, batting at his hands. “Please stop, _sir_.”

 _That_ gets a rise out of him. Literally. That one word and he’s putty in your hands, ready to commit these depraved acts all in the name of hearing you scream with pleasure. You know what you’re doing, you know _exactly_ what you’re doing. You put on a show of innocence with your wide eyes and sweet little pout. It drives him _nuts_.

“Can’t say no to you, babygirl.”

Bucky’s known you for a matter of days but you already have him wrapped around your little finger. _How_?

Thankfully, he’s spared the answer when his phone buzzes and with a reluctant sigh, he rolls off you to retrieve it from where it’s charging across the room. He can feel your eyes boring into him as he waltzes around the room naked, so he walks with somewhat of a swagger, flashing a charming grin over his shoulder and he watches as you bite your lip. Perhaps he has you wrapped around his finger, too.

* * *

James wants to spend the day with you. He’s adamant that he wants to take you shopping and you question if he’s clinically insane considering the thousands of euros he dropped on you yesterday. You’re on the receiving end of an eyeroll, followed by a sharp slap on your backside “ _for_ _your cheek, babygirl_.” He shows you to the guest bathroom and by the time you’re showered and dressed, he’s waiting for you in the kitchen.

James is on the phone, and you catch a few words.

“... _contrats à titre onéreux_ ... _des obligations réciproques_ … _l’article 1107 du Code civil_ …”

It’s alarmingly distracting how gorgeous he sounds speaking a language other than English and you busy yourself with breakfast before you have to go change your underwear again. Jarvis pours you a cup of coffee, politely making small talk that’s not awkward in the slightest as he asks you whether you would prefer poached eggs or an omelette. You opt for an omelette, unfurling a copy of the newspaper, _Le_ _Monde_.

It’s a domestic scene, but not overly so. There are clear boundaries that signal the nature of your relationship and truth be told, you rather like it. It’s nice not to have the play the part of domesticated girlfriend, cooking breakfast dressed in his shirt. You need not sit in his lap and pretend to enjoy being spoon-fed your every bite. It’s simple. Refreshingly so.

“You mind if we stop at the office first?” asks James, breaking the silence. “I need to take care of a couple things.”

You don’t mind, you’re content to watch Parisians go about their weekend from the car window as James types out emails on his phone. You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He’s dressed casually today, in an effortless kind of way that commands your attention. It’s a simply put together combination of dark jeans and a matching black sweater. The scruff on his jaw veers dangerously towards a beard and paired with the coiffed, fluffy hair, you amusedly ponder if he’s more “ _daddy_ ” than “ _sir_ ”.

You hold your tongue as Jarvis brings the car to a halt, your surprise evident when James opens your door and holds out his hand. You belly flutters. The idea of being seen with you in such a public place doesn’t disgust him. Of course, what people know of your _arrangement_ remains a mystery, but at least he’s not embarrassed of you. He lets go of your hand once you’re on your feet, but ever the gentleman, he holds open doors and insists you go first.

Nelson, Murdock, Barnes is an impressive building that stands out like a shining beacon. Not that you expected anything less than sleek modernity, but it doesn’t stop you from staring round in awe. As it’s James who’s brought you here, you have no qualms pestering him with questions. His partners, Nelson and Murdock, take care of the firm’s business back in New York while he’s overseas here in Europe. He’s the resident specialist in contract law (which explains his phone conversation over breakfast) but he has a keen interest in human rights and ethics. As for why he chose to go into law, well, he likes to be right all the time. No argument there.

“I won’t be long,” he promises, showing you to his office. “Ten minutes, tops.”

One glance at James’ office is all takes to confirm he’s top dog. You’re positive your whole apartment could fit in here, possibly even twice. The frosted glass allows him the privilege of a little privacy, and you imagine he must migrate across the room as the day progresses. You see him at his desk in the morning because it makes him feel productive. Around midday, he’s got his feet up on the black leather couch and feeling the lunchtime slump. He’s spread his case files around the small conference table by the time the day ends. As for personal artefacts, they are few and far between. His degree certificate is proudly displayed in a frame on the wall and you’re willing to bet your new MacBook that he was top of his class. There are some books about Picasso, Degas and Monet on the glass coffee table and a couple of others tucked away on the shelf. There’s little pointing to his private life, in this room he’s James Barnes the lawyer.

“Hey, I’ve been looking for you- oh, sorry. You’re not Bucky.”

A blonde man who stands tall at six feet, possibly even a little more. He’s well built, broad shoulders and muscled chest with a waist that dips in neatly. He’s studying you with blue eyes but not in a way that causes you discomfort. It’s confusion written on his somewhat familiar face.

“Not unless something’s changed since I looked in the mirror this morning.”

He laughs warmly, following up with a joke of his own about how it’s for the best. His brows knit together but he holds out his hand politely nonetheless.

“Steve Rogers,” he introduces himself. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” you smiled, shaking his proffered hand. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

“The same Y/N Y/L/N from the Carter- “

“- Académie des Beaux-Arts, yes!”

Your smile widens and Steve is equally pleased to put a name to the face. He’s a pleasant man, with kindness in his eyes and unmistakable friendliness in his demeanour. There’s an easiness about him and you take a liking instantly.

“I didn’t realise you and Bucky were… together.” he comments delicately, relishing the final word.

“Oh, we’re not,” you correct him kindly. “It’s nothing serious.”

You’re careful not to give away too many details. He must be a close friend if he calls James “Bucky” and is at his office on a Saturday. But that’s not a good enough reason to shout about your arrangement from the rooftops. Conversation quickly strikes up, flowing easily as you try to pinpoint your crossed paths.

Steve is disheartened to hear you’re no longer around at the _Académie_ , especially as his good friend Sam Wilson speaks highly of the work you produce for his Creative Writing class, but you insist that there are no hard feelings there. Business is business.

James chooses that moment to walk in, eyes darting between the pair of you. From your perch on his desk, you flash a smile but he’s a tad more occupied with the poorly concealed smirk on Steve’s face. James’ expression reminds you of the time you were sixteen years old and your teacher walked in on you kissing your boyfriend in an empty chemistry lab. Naturally, your curiosity is piqued and you make a mental note to find out why later.

“Hey, pal,” greets James. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room, just need a couple signatures.”

“Thanks, Buck,” nods Steve. “I guess I got caught up speaking with Y/N.”

You’re sure Steve is teasing, what with the way he says your name and hikes his eyebrows up as he grins across the room. James doesn’t take the bait, even though you wish he would. Something in his jaw ticks and you bite back a giggle.

“Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Y/N,” says Steve genially. “I hope you’ll be back at the _Académie_ , Sam misses his favourite student.”

“Thank you, Steve,” you say with a small laugh. “Tell him I said hello.”

You pretend to be absorbed in your cuticles, sparing the men the courtesy of sharing a rapidly hushed conversation. Steve departs with a chuckle, leaving you and James alone in his office. His cheeks still bear some pinkness in the silence of the car.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

“What, Steve?” he asks and you nod. “Nah, he’s just being a good friend. Giving me shit about the pretty girl in my office.”

James has a cocky grin on his face as his eyes trail over you, trying to make a point. You roll your eyes and sit back comfortably in your seat, a hand reaching out to squeeze his thigh.

“You know, for an old man you can certainly be immature.” you say mockingly.

“That’s where you’re wrong, babygirl. Men never mature.”

* * *

For a man who claims to be immature, James is nothing short of shocking when he leads you into _Chanel_ and immediately requests for someone called Clemence. No sooner does Clemence make an appearance, James is babbling away.

“We’ll take a look at the Timeless Classic, not the 2.55, I think that’s a little mature. Gold tone, please. And black lambskin, none of the loud seasonal colours, they’re ostentatious.”

You’re not quite sure if he’s speaking the same language anymore, so you take the offered chair that’s been drawn out for you and accept the glass of champagne. Your body must be fifty percent bubbles by now it’s a wonder you haven’t floated to the ceiling. You take a stab at looking the part, but it’s tasking when James reels off the history of the bag as if he’s one who designed it. The burgundy lining is a nod at the nuns who taught Coco Chanel, the clasp is called “ _the mademoiselle lock_ ” to signify how she never married, and the inside pocket is rumoured to have stored illicit love letters. That must be James’ favourite fact, his eyes twinkle as he tells you it.

Shopping has always been fairly enjoyable. With James, it seals itself as one of your favourite ways to spend a weekend. A large percentage of that is because you’re not constricted to _Primark_ or bargain bins, yes, but it’s the way he’s so invested in it that makes it such fun. He seems to relish in sitting on the comfortable couch, one leg crossed over the other and head tilted to one side as you try on outfit after outfit for him. Without question, it’s your final stop of the day that leaves a lasting impression.

* * *

_Aubade_ advertises itself as “ _lessons in seduction_ ” and with staff who are as adept at advising men on what to buy as they are at telling women what to try on, it’s easy to see why. You find yourself in a changing room with an array of lingerie entirely of James’ choosing. He’s settled on the little pouffe just beyond the curtain armed with an impish smile rife with sex.

If James thinks he’s calling the shots, he’s about to have his world turned upside down. He brings out a bolder side to you, one that is seemingly a master in the art of seduction. You know exactly how to play this game, he’ll be begging to worship you by the time you get home.

You start simple, with a pair of black lace panties cut high in the back to show the perfect amount of bum. There’s a matching bra that plunges daringly low, the leather looking straps and delicate lacework sit beautifully on your skin. There’s a satin ribbon laced through the cups to hold them together, pushing your breasts up just enough to emanate pure seduction.

To his credit, James makes a decent attempt to remain unperturbed when you pull back the curtain. Though, that smile slides off his face as he blinks, eyes darting over your ensemble as you tilt a hip forward. A muffled groan graces your ears when you turn to present him with your ass, but it’s so quiet you might have imagined it. He looks like a young boy, caught spying on a beautiful woman undressing and you show no mercy, running your hands over the lace.

“What do you think?” you pose.

James tries to appear casual but his body language says otherwise. You blush a little, it’s a sight to behold; this man who is otherwise a stranger can so confidently but silently show his desire for you.

“ _Fuck_ , princess,” he swears. “Gonna give me a heart attack.”

“Oh,” you frown. “Well, I don’t want that. I should put this one back.”

“No!” he cries, distraught by the prospect. “No, you should keep it.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_.”

Giggles are restrained with some difficulty as you disappear back behind the curtain. James mutters a few choice curses and you resist the urge to cackle evilly as you reach for the next hanger. It’s lucky James has been able to secure a more private changing area as you’re not entirely sure the next ensemble is appropriate even for a lingerie boutique.

The bra and panties leave very little to the imagination, they’re sheer and feel silky on your skin. It’s not difficult to ascertain why James picked this little number, as both pieces are held together by satin ties. One little tug is all takes if he wants you out of them. You knot a neat bow on either side of your waist. Your pulse is racing at a million miles an hour and you’re be lying if you said his reaction hadn’t had any effect on you. And, in the interest of honesty, you look _good_.

James scrolls through emails on his phone in feigned oblivion. You allow him a minute, sixty seconds to compose himself is all he gets and then you insist on his attention once more.

“James?”

A nonchalant grunt.

“James, I need you.”

His head jerks up and you smile innocently.

“I need you to tell me what you think.” You add, as if it’s an afterthought.

James’ tongue darts out, running along his bottom lip as his eyes drink you in. _You’re_ the one trying to seduce _him_ but it’s hard to think straight when he looks at you like he wants to ruin you. His head cocks to one side, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that makes you shiver. He looks… _otherworldly_ when he looks at you like that. Eyes impossibly dark and one eyebrow raised teasingly. He bows his head slightly so he’s looking up at you with this piercing stare that you think you could come there and then. He’s restrained this time, much more so than before and that only adds to his allure. He’s dark and devious and it takes every ounce of your self-control to not drag him into the changing room with you.

You test his resolve. Gripping one of the bows on your hips, you give it an experimental tug, very gently, merely to loosen it but it’s enough to slacken James’ grip on his phone and it slides out his hand to the floor. He promptly growls and picks it up, unable to tear his eyes away from you.

“I think,” he says carefully. “I’m gonna fucking tear you apart when we get home.”

James’ gaze is unyielding as Jarvis drives you back to yours. He says little, but his hand finds home on your thigh, fingers spread wide possessively but you continue your cute little charade, hoping he can’t hear your heart hammering in your chest. At the discretion of the sales assistant, you’re still wearing the lingerie. James just doesn’t know it yet.

* * *

James is sin personified and you force yourself to take a breath as he stalks towards you. You’ve never felt like this before. Heat and desperate need floods your body as he runs his hands up your arms. It only takes that simple movement to further spike your arousal. You’re so turned on it’s almost terrifying, and your shiver doesn’t escape his notice.

“Do I make you nervous, princess?” he asks, his voice barely above a purr.

“Yes.” you whisper, his fingers ghosting up the column of your neck.

“I don’t mean to,” he says in a tone that suggests the opposite. “Or want to.”

“I think you like it.”

His chuckle is as dark as his eyes as he steps closer, the air between you fizzling.

“You’re a goddamn tease, you know that?”

His Brooklyn accent seeps into his every word, it’s rough and ragged and you can feel the dampness between your legs. His hand brushes your cheek and you lean into his touch, silently pleading for more.

“I’m gonna fuck you, princess,” he says warningly, mouth hot on your ear. “I’m gonna fuck you until you scream.”

You mewl and press close to him, palms splayed against his chest as you let your desire take over. James seems to like this, letting his hands roam down your back and over the curve of your ass. And then the warmth of his body is gone. You can’t help but whine at the loss but the look on his face tells you he’s not in the mood for prolonging the teasing. You’ll get what you want soon enough.

“Strip.”

The order is hushed and husky, but you blink. It’s broad daylight and you’re standing in the middle of your apartment in full view of the windows. James notices your eyes flicker to the scuffed glass but it only brings back that dangerous smirk, daring you to defy him.

You want to protest but then you remember what lies beneath your clothes and the smallest of smiles crosses your face. There’s a slight shift in the air as you reach for the hem of your top. You pull it over your head as James watches you with hooded eyes, the pleasure on his face spurring your confidence. You skirt pools around your feet and you lift your eyes. Recognition lights up his face as he salaciously stares at your lingerie.

“You’re not going to have another heart attack, are you James?”

You’re not sure where the teasing jab comes from, but you don’t regret it because his eyes meet yours, crinkling at the outer edges. His eyes are icy, raking over you like you’re a present he’s going to take great pleasure in unwrapping.

“This isn’t the time to test me, princess.”

You smirk and straighten the bows holding your panties together before looking back at up him. You try for flippant but there are butterflies blooming in your belly and you don’t want to drag this out any more than he does.

“So, where do you want me, Mr. Barnes?”

In one short stride he’s in front of you again, fingers toying with the bow at the front of your bra. He pulls it, the satin ribbon glides over your skin until the bra falls open. The sheer lace catches on your hardened nipples but he stops you before you shrug it off.

“You been teasin’ me all day,” James whispers. “I oughta punish you.”

You let out a strangled moan at the prospect.

“Next time,” he promises darkly. “Right now, I want you on that bed. On your hands and knees.”

If you weren’t so turned on you might have been embarrassed at how eagerly you obey him. You dare to peek at him over your shoulder, eyeing him as he rids himself of his clothes before joining you. His hands run down your hips and you wriggle, mostly from how good it feels but he digs his fingers in punishingly and you still. He mumbles something about “ _taking his sweet time_ ” and “ _drawing your pretty little ass_ ” before tugging at the ribbons.

James’ hums in approval, trailing his lips over your shoulders and down your spine as his hands continue to caress you, a little more harshly now. Your hips buck when his stubble tickles your ass, gasping his name when his bites down on your cheek. He smirks against your skin, telling you he “ _just couldn’t resist_ ” and whispering filthy nothings about “ _the things I wanna do to this ass_ ”.

You moan at the feel of his fingers spreading your folds, lightly teasing you before he sinks his fingers into you harshly.

“So fucking wet already,” he groans, as he slowly drives you insane. “This all for me, princess?”

“Yes.” you choke out in between pants.

“Yes, what?” he demands, sharply swatting your ass.

“Yes, _sir_.” You moan at the sting.

That familiar feeling of overwhelming bliss. Your senses are in overdrive. The lace of your bra scraping against your hard nipples. The cool sheets under your heated skin. And James… his fingers, his breath and his lips. Your head swims with pleasure as he whispers about how beautiful you are, how he wants to fuck you over and over. Your hands fist in the sheets, your hips grinding back against James’ fingers as you feel yourself veering dangerously close. But, just as you’re about to let go, his pulls his fingers away and you moan in frustration.

“Relax, babygirl,” comes his voice over the tearing of a foil packet. “I’m gonna take real good care of you.”

“ _James_!”

You yelp as he pushes the head of his cock in your soaked entrance easily, shuddering at the way he stretches you impossibly. He growls your name and you push back to meet his every thrust, wanton moans freely falling from your lips. He’s merciless, rocking so deep it doesn’t take long until you’re screaming just like James said you would.

“Christ, you’re so tight.” he grunts, one hand gently pulling at your hair.

“Please, James!”

You’re a mess, your orgasm barrelling down on you and you try to tell him but the words come out as jumbled gasps. The sun is hot on your skin, James’ cock is hard and incessant, the mattress is squeaking beneath your knees and you feel close to bursting.

“Let go, princess,” his voice is hoarse and you know he’s right there on the edge there with you. “C’mon,  _fuck_ , babygirl, come for me.”

His thrusts grow sloppily, it’s rough and unrelenting until you snap and come hard, screaming into the pillow as James’ hips falter and he roars as his own bliss consumes him. Your arms wobble and you collapse on the bed, lightheaded and sore in the most delicious way.

A long moment passes before you open your heavy eyes, blinking owlishly at James who lies beside you. He’s grinning lazily, the look of triumph etched on his face as he turns to meet your gaze. His blue-grey eyes are dreamlike. Sunshine swathes his sated expression, bright rays beaming over his chiselled chest and you reach out, yearning to feel your fingers through the light fuzz under his collarbone. Dust dances through the air, still thick with his scent.

James is well versed and is the first to reach for a cigarette. Smoke swirls above you as you try to tame your tousled locks into submission. Your mascara is a little smudged, cheeks still pink and skin still warm. And still, lying tangled in your sheets with James within touching distance feels oddly content. The cigarette burns to an end and he sighs, reluctantly pulling his boxers back on.

“I’m in New York this week,” he says, voice still raw. “Business.”

You prop yourself up on your forearms as he sits back down on the bed, jeans unbuttoned as he shoves his feet into his shoes. His jumper still lies in a crumpled heap on the scrubbed wooden floorboards.

“When I get back…” he trails off, but his eyes flash with the warning of his earlier promise of punishing you and you bite your lip seductively.

“Don’t break too many hearts, babygirl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	8. Huit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James flies out to New York. He interrupts your sleep. You interrupt his meeting.
> 
> Smut Warnings: female masturbation, phone sex, semi-nude photos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut. I agonised over this chapter a little, trying to balance out the porn with at least some plot. It's there, if you squint hard enough. 
> 
> I hope you're enjoying reading this story (can I call it that when it's most just sex?). Merci to all the lovely people who have left kudos and bisous to those who comment. Honestly, I was really struggling with writing this so I scrolled through the comments you lovely lot have left and it gave me the inspiration I needed. I hope that tells you just how valuable your comments are to me. Please do continue, I love hearing from you.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

Thirty thousand feet in the air with nothing but white clouds to surround them and Steve Rogers still finds it in him to tease his best friend. Bucky’s sipping on his complimentary glass of wine, legs stretched out and sunshine pouring in from the small window from somewhere over the ocean. Partway through the exhaustive nine hour flight, Bucky’s investment in Steve’s story has steadily dwindled, the messages he’s currently exchanging far more interesting. _Dieu merci_ for the semi-decent WiFi in Business Class.

“You’re texting her, aren’t you?”

Steve’s jab is accompanied by the biggest knowing grin and Bucky settles for rolling his eyes.

“Give it a break, would ya, pal?” he huffs, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, I was just tellin’ her the good news.”

The “ _good news_ ” was that Bucky had re-enrolled you back at the _Académie_. A hint of sadness had crept into your smile when you asked Steve to pass on a message of greeting to Sam and Bucky had picked up on it immediately. In between you trying on various dresses and lingerie, he had ironed out the details directly with Steve which no doubt, gave him further ammunition.

“You sure you don’t have feelings for this girl?”

“It’s just sex, Steve.”

“I don’t see Tony doing half the shit you do.”

Bucky snorts, fingers still busy on his phone screen.

“That’s cause Tony sleeps with girls who can only count in dollar signs.”

Steve snorts too because he knows it’s true just as much as Bucky does. They share amused chuckles but the blonde still has a mischievous look about him, one that Bucky knows all too well. He braces himself for further mocking, but it’s alright because Steve is the one person in the world who’s allowed to get away with murder.

“So,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, leaning over. “You must be spending _a lot_ if she’s sticking around for an old man like you.”

“Oh God, Steve. Shut up.” groans Bucky, hiding his face with a hand.

“It’s been a year, right? Do you even remember how to- “

“Steve, I’m five seconds away from shoving these pretzels up your ass.”

Bucky scowls as Steve laughs evilly, clutching his chest as he doubles over in his seat. A pretzel bounces off his blonde head and he splutters. There are a few more titters until the laughter dies away, by which point Bucky is flicking through the movie options on the little television screen, phone still unlocked and clutched in his palm.

“For the record,” smiles Steve, throwing the pretzel back. “It’s nice to see you happy.”

Bucky grins at that and doesn’t even bother to hide it. Because it’s true, he is _happy_. He feels a little more alive again, no longer trapped in an uninspiring rut of work and no play. The sun is warmer, the sky is bluer and he’s reminded of what a vibrant city he’s given up New York for.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I am happy.”

“A pretty young girl at your beck and call, I’ll bet you are.” quips Steve, playful once more.

Bucky rolls his eyes affectionately. Steve is a far cry from the sweet angel most people paint him as, but on this occasion, he can’t fault his best friend. It is nice to have a pretty, young girl on his arm and not necessarily for the reasons people would think. It isn’t some kink or a mid-life crisis.

You remind him what living is meant to be like. You’re carefree and content to see what life has in store. Of course, you’re not lazy by any means, but you stop to smell the roses once in a while. Bucky feels alive with you and it’s so much _fun_. He’s fallen into those indie French films he likes so much, the ones with a vintage colour palette and sloping streets of Montmartre. His mind holds memories of messy sheets with and charcoal smudged hands, lingering cigarette smoke and lips stained with red wine. It’s everything he wants right now.

“She doesn’t want anything serious,” Bucky tells Steve when prompted. “She’s young, she’s still tryin’ to work out her own life.”

It’s a breath of fresh air to not be tied down. It’s refreshing to not have to answer to anyone, as selfish as it sounds. He rather enjoys the benefits of the _arrangement_ he has with you. Companionship; you’re able to hold a conversation on politics unlike the last girl he hooked up, you know enough about art and culture to ask him thoughtful questions. Food; you aren’t the least bit concerned about counting calories and are happy to indulge in French food just as much as he is. Art; you’ve renewed his spark for drawing, something he was sure he had lost. Sure, it costs him a bit but not enough to put dent in his bank balance. It’s worth it anyhow, as he somewhat smugly tells Steve.

“I’m telling you, pal, it’s _amazing_ ,” he sighs. “And the sex. Shit, Stevie, it’s _insane_. I swear, she- ”

There’s an audible coughing fit from behind Bucky and he peers over the top of his seat to see a disgruntled woman with her blonde hair in a tight bun, a teenage girl beside her who has a fist stuffed in her mouth to stop from giggling. He winks at them before sitting back down and lowering his voice, not bothering to apologise because he’s not embarrassed, not even in the slightest. Neither is Steve apparently, rubbing his temples with a curved grin peeking out under his hand. Nevertheless, Bucky tones down his crudity. In simple but not so eloquent terms, it’s nice to not have “ _where are you?_ ” texts hanging over his head. He most certainly does not miss those.

“I’m sure you don’t,” smirks Steve, glancing at Bucky’s phone. “Not when she’s sending you pictures like _that_ , pal.”

“Fuck off, Steve!”

“Wait, what she’s doing with her leg? Damn, does she do that in bed?”

There’s a high-pitched scream of frustration, followed by girlish giggles and the air stewardess is summoned to control the two inappropriate men soiling the innocent ears of a mere teenager. Yes, the arrangement has definitely lopped a few years off Bucky’s age.

* * *

Biting back a giggle, you put your phone away just as the instructor enters the room. A quick wink to Wanda to confirm the picture she’s just taken of you has worked like a charm. Stepping back into yoga classes seems to have more than just one benefit.

Days pass in sepia tones and bright sunshine. Periwinkle blue skies and scarves whipping in the wind. Light bounces off the buildings, revealing Parisian truths and it’s all you need to fire up your camera. Inspiration isn’t always easy to come by, it’s one of the greatest ironies of being a self-proclaimed creative, but with James roughly four thousand miles away, you decide it’s time to do something with your life.

As much as you’re James’ muse, you equally find in him the fuel to your passion. Photography comes easy, popular on Instagram mostly but it’s lead to an increased interest in your talent. You have a few bloggers and influencers booked in your diary for photoshoots the following weeks which means a few extra euros in your pocket.

Writing though, that’s your one true love. A little sad as it seems to be a dying art but you’re determined to make it work. You’ve been getting by on freelance jobs here and there, ranging from translations to creative pieces, but you need something more secure. Wanda offers you her assistance in posting resumes after your yoga class and you happily accept.

“I was beginning to think Mr. Grey would never let you go.” she giggles, nudging you.

“He is not Christian Grey, Wanda.”

“No chains and whips?”

“No chains and whips.” you confirm. “Not that he’s vanilla in the slightest.”

Your mysterious wink almost instigates a cascade of resumes, but Wanda catches them in time. She tugs at your elbow incessantly and although it’s evident you’re perhaps exaggerating a little just to annoy her, it doesn’t prevent the million questions she hurls at you.

“Oh, come on, Y/N!” she pouts. “You know Elektra will worm it out of you one way or another!”

“What, so you’re the warm up act?”

Wanda nods enthusiastically and you laugh, unlocking your front door. She isn’t one to give up easily so you usher her inside. One glance around around your apartment is all it takes for her jaw to drop. Granted, it’s still every bit as messy as before, but there’s no mistaking the several new additions to the general decor. Wanda wobbles on the spot, unsure if she should run to the handbags displayed on a bookshelf or the _Dior_ dresses in your open wardrobe. She actively gasps when she sees the _Diptyque_ candles dotted along the windowsill.

“If you weren’t my best friend I would be robbing you right now.” she says in a vaguely threatening voice as you prod your new espresso machine to life.

“It’s crazy, right?” you squeal. “I didn’t even ask for half of this, Wanda. I just thought he would pay my rent and phone bill!”

“And instead you get new season _Chanel_.” she sighs dreamily. “Does he have a brother?”

You burst into a peal of giggles and she soon joins in, the pair of you rather pleased with the results of the espresso machine. You end up having two more, poring over the fancy purchases that populate your minute apartment. Wanda’s still struggling to wrap her head around the whole affair.

“I don’t get how this isn’t a relationship.” she puzzles, sitting cross legged on the foot of your bed. “I understand he’s giving you money, but, you’re basically doing everything you would do if you were dating, right?”

“Yes and no,” you answer, thinking it through. “There’s no feelings involved. He’s a nice guy, but we both have no emotional investment in this.”

“So, you’re just not romantically attached?”

“Exactly, _c’est ça_.”

“And then there’s the crazy hot sex.”  winks Wanda and you exhale, flopping back down on the bed.

“ _Putain_ , Wanda, the _sex_.” you groan happily. “It’s like _magic_ , he knows exactly what to do to get a woman off and he’s so _enthusiastic_ about it. The things he can do with his fingers. Oh and the _mouth_ on him- ”

A cushion hits you in the face as Wanda flops back on the bed beside you in another fit of giggles.

“Alright, I get it, you’re sleeping with a sex god.”

You hum in agreement, her description of James rather apt. She pats your cheek and you roll over to face her.

“I’m glad to see things working out for you, Y/N,” she smiles. “It’s nice to see you happy.”

* * *

Dissecting the finer points of your sex life with James Barnes might be a glorious way to spend an afternoon but it does little to further your career. Instead, you channel the energy into applying for various jobs online. There’s a few freelance positions that look attractive enough to entice you into an application and in all honesty, any experience would be better than none so you can’t afford to be too picky.

Before you know it, it’s midnight and you realise the day has run away from you. Although, not because of a lack of productivity so guilt isn’t imminent. Paris is warm tonight, the last few dregs of summer bringing high temperatures and you strip down to your underwear and a tank top, reaching for your phone only to realise you’ve missed quite a few texts from James.

JB: _Yoga, huh? Think I just found my inspiration for how I wanna draw you next ;)_

JB: _You’re a damn tease, babygirl, sending me a picture like that._

JB: _Got me all hot just thinking about you._

Your mouth waters as another text comes through. It’s James, taking a selfie in what you assume is the gym locker room. He’s freshly showered, finger swept hair looking perfectly ruffled and blue-grey eyes steely as he looks at his phone. He’s not wearing a shirt, the ripple of his muscles bared in all their glory and the waistband of his black and red Calvin Klein boxers visible.

James is an Adonis. One of those meticulously carved sculptures in the Louvre. Except James is very much real and you don’t think you’ll ever tire of looking at him. You’re accustomed to seeing him in various states of undress but each time is like the first; your breath catches, heat pools in your belly and lust fogs your brain. There are tell tale signs of a flush spreading over his chest and you know he’s sent the selfie to toy with you.

You’re wide awake, consumed by dreams of tracing your fingertips along each of those defined lines on his stomach, kissing your way across the hard expanse of his chest, bracing your hands on his broad shoulders as he fucks you senseless. Another text comes through, a flirtatious remark about finishing his workout and you decide that two can play that game.

It’s tasteful enough, the selfie you text him in return. You’re in just your panties, arms crossed over your chest as you leave enough exposed to tease James without giving too much away. Your hair is tousled and you make sure to bit your lip as you look into the camera with sultry eyes. It’s accompanied by a simple caption.

Y/N: _Shame you’re not here, I can think of a workout that’s so much more fun ;)_

You lie back amongst the covers, skin too hot to lie beneath them, grinning madly as “ _delivered_ ” changes to “ _read_ ”. You’re feeling extremely pleased with yourself and then, after exactly forty five seconds, your phone rings.

* * *

“Aren’t you ‘sposed to be asleep, princess?”

Bucky whispers fervently; his voice is strained and he can practically hear your smirk through the phone.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting?” you counter.

“I _am_ in a meeting.”

“And you’re on the phone to me?” you gasp. “Aren’t you a bad boy?”

His growl is received by your giggle as he grumbles under his breath. The associates crowded around a conference table look at him and he encourages them to start without him, he won’t be long he assures them.

“It’s your fault, you know.” comes your voice and he frowns.

“My fault?”

“You started it with that picture after your workout.”

“Yeah?” he grins. “Thought you might like it.”

“Oh, I did,” you reply. “I was about to go to sleep but then you sent that picture and now I’m wide awake, James.”

Heat creeps up his body, making him tug at the collar of his pressed white shirt.

“I wish you were here to tire me out.”

Bucky whirls around, the strain on his zipper suddenly prominent.

“Y/N…”

“ _James_.”

You moan his name breathily and he gnaws at his lip, desperately holding back a groan. Bucky glances over his shoulder, but his associates seem to be engrossed in figuring out a HDMI cable.

“Don’t you wish you were here?”

“You know I do.”

“What would you do to me if you were here in my bed, James?”

“I- I can’t do this, princess,” he whispers urgently. “ _Shit_ , I want to do this but not when I’m in a roomful of people.”

“That’s okay,” you coo. “You don’t have to do anything, James. You just have to listen.”

Bucky bites his lip again, slowly growing more and more restless to the point that he can’t think straight. Professionalism is not even part of the equation, it’s more of a wish that he was back in his hotel room and out of his stuffy suit. He’s half-tempted to feign sudden illness but your breath turns into ragged pants with every passing second and he’s not sure how he’s meant to slip out the room with the bulge in his pants.

“It’s so hot here, James,” you moan quietly. “I’m lying in bed, thinking about that time with the champagne and the ice.”

Bucky curses under his breath, face growing hot.

“I’m imagining it’s your hands on me,” you continue and he inconspicuously adjust his pants. “ _James_ , that feels so _good_.”

Bucky’s eyes clamp shut, the memory of that night flooding back to him. The way you were sprawled out before him, his tongue chasing the trails of melted ice, how wet you were for _him_.

“I love it when you use your mouth and when you get all rough, you get me so wet.”

Your sentence is punctuated by a loud moan and Bucky glances over his shoulder again to make sure no-one’s listening.

“What’re you doing?” he finds himself whispering huskily.

“Touching myself just like you would,” you gasp. “I have one hand on my breasts, flicking and pinching my nipples just how you do, and the other- “

Bucky twitches as your sentence ends abruptly in another moan.

“James,” you purr. “James, I really want you to fuck me.”

Bucky stifles his own moan.

“I want you to fuck me anyway you like, James. I need you fill me with your cock. James, go _faster_.”

Bucky’s not sure how he’s still standing. He’s lost in the sound of your voice, imagining your nails digging into his shoulders, his lips on your neck as he buries himself in your tight heat, your screams of pleasure filling his ears.

“I’m so close, James. Please fuck me harder, please, _sir_.”

“ _Fuck_.”

Bucky’s close to bursting himself. He’s hard as a fucking rock, achingly so and he can feel himself leaking against the fabric of his boxers. It’s infuriating he can’t do anything about it, especially when you’re whining his name so prettily.

“ _James_!”

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek as he hears you moan and gasp your way through your orgasm. He settles for the memory of how you look coming undone, your head thrown back and a gorgeous heat flushing all over your skin as your eyelashes flutter against your cheekbones. He imagines it’s him there with you, his hands curled around your hips as you writhe around his cock.

There’s a soft, sleepy whine and despite how turned on and frustrated he is, it’s cute and it makes him grin. There’s a rustle of bedsheets and he can picture you perfectly, curling up on the silk sheets he bought you, your skin warm and the city lights shining through the window. He wonders if you're too exhausted for a cigarette.

“You feelin’ tired now, babygirl?”

“Yes.” you murmur. “Mm, you feel really good, James.”

“Go to sleep, princess. I’ll see you in a few days.”

Bucky hangs up the phone to your steady breathing. He rubs his eyes and his temples, a little bit shocked at what’s just transpired and more than anything, he’s painfully hard and in dire need to do something about it. He decides he’s not going to be able to concentrate on this meeting so he hurriedly gathers his belongings, stammering out a half-assed apology to his partners.

“Nice of your girlfriend to call when she misses you.” grins Matt Murdock.

“What?” blinks Bucky. “Oh, uh, she’s not my girlfriend.”

“So… that, um, _hard_ _problem_ has nothing to do with your fifteen minute long phone call with her?” deadpans Foggy Nelson.

Bucky’s two partners share a knowing smirk and it roots him to the spot, frozen in fear.

“Fuck you both, you fucking fucks. This is why I moved to Paris.”

“You miss us really!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	9. Neuf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Wanda's birthday. Loki cooks dinner. You do body shots.
> 
> Smut Warnings: dirty talk, boys kissing, girls kissing, semi-public sex, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut, tout le monde. I need your help! This story is shameless smut (I regret NOTHING at this point) so I need your opinion! What else do you want to see in this story? Any particular scenarios? Anything specifically sexy? I'm open to all ideas. I think I've covered a good few bases with oral sex, semi-public sex, phone sex... please let me know what else I should include! You can comment below or if you're feeling shy, pop by my Tumblr (link in the end notes) and tell me anonymously. Thank you!
> 
> This is possibly my favourite chapter so far, one I got rather carried away. It's inspired in part by real life, particularly the ending, so I hope you have a good time reading this one. I most certainly had a grand time writing this filth.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

Paris by night is a thing of beauty. Magic settles in, turning the sky a shade of inky blue that serves as the perfect backdrop for the city lights. Overwhelmed by tourists by day, after dark is reserved for the locals. They spill out of bistros on to the street, clutching cigarettes like lifelines and chattering rapidly to colleagues over baskets of bread. At night, Paris is breathtakingly gorgeous.

There are lights of your own that you’ve strung up in your small apartment. Wanda’s birthday entails a night of festivities, dinner first and then a party because it’s possibly the final time you can all drink like merry pirates before being deemed immature. A neatly wrapped present sits on the coffee table, one you all chipped in together to buy. There is one more present from just you, hidden behind your toilet tank; a bottle of _Dior_ perfume to Wanda that will have to wait until tomorrow to avoid questions about how you were able to afford it.

You’re wearing neatly tailored black pants and a silky black camisole, pattering around your apartment in your bare feet. It’s slowly filling with a variety of delicious aromas. Duck croquettes, crispy Brie, red pepper tapenade and a baked camembert serve as appetisers, although you’re waiting for Clint to bring the fresh bread. You have _Poulet Chasseur_ to look forward to; pan fried chicken in a classic _chasseur_ sauce of mushrooms, thyme, _concassé_ tomato and red wine, with _pomme_ _purée_ and vegetables. Dessert is a bit more easy going because there’s a cake for the party. So you’ll whip up some crepes and there’s a carefully curated cheese board to nibble on.

Needless to say, Loki has pulled out all the stops. As a man who runs supper clubs in his humble abode in the Marais, food is his mastery. You’re scattering disposable cameras around your apartment as Wanda takes on the all important task of perfecting a playlist just as Clint burst through the door, arms laden with copious amounts of bread. There’s a collective cheer and finally, you can dig into the appetisers.

“This is so nice,” comments Wanda, accepting a glass of wine from you. “We should do this more often, not just on birthdays.”

“I’ll toast to that.” pipes Elektra, raising her glass. “ _Santé_!”

“ _Santé_!”

It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but you make it work. You always do. Another night that will turn into a morning with the friends you call family. Wanda’s birthday entitles her to the armchair, Loki and Clint commandeer the small couch, Elektra at their feet and you make yourself comfortable on the mismatched velvet footstool.

“So, Y/N,” says Elektra casually. “I see you’re wearing _Saint_ _Laurent_.”

You dip your hunk of bread into the Camembert as nonchalantly as you can, but you feel everyone’s eyes on you. A quick shrug to play it off, but Elektra’s persistent. As she should be, considering she’s interning at _Vogue_.

“It was a present.” you say offhandedly.

“From your lover?” she presses.

“Wait, you’re seeing someone?” interjects Clint, strumming his fork. “Who?”

“Yes, darling, do tell.” grins Loki easily. “We know he’s wealthy, obviously, but that’s not nearly enough detail.”

“It’s nothing serious,” you insist, heaping tapenade on to your plate. “We’re just playing it by ear.”

“Oh, honey,” says Elektra with a shake of her glossy black hair. “You do not buy someone _Saint_ _Laurent_ and _play it by ear_.”

“I told you she’d worm it out of you.” mutters Wanda and you narrow your eyes at her.

“Worm what out of you?” chirps Elektra with a predatory smile because of course, nothing escapes her.

Loki leans over and rather unsubtly tops up your wine glass. Laughter echoes around the group, including you and you sigh, taking a healthy sip. You skate over the finer details of your arrangement with James, but your friends know enough to surmise it’s not a conventional relationship. Clint whistles lowly whilst Loki congratulates you and it puts you at ease. At least, until they hanker for more juicy tidbits about James.

“No,” you refuse. “This is Wanda’s birthday!”

“Oh, I am always happy to hear more about James,” she grins. “You guys should see him, he’s so _hot_.”

“What? You’ve met him already?” cries Elektra. “When do we get to meet him, Y/N?”

“You don’t.” you deadpan. “More wine?”

“Spoilsport.” pouts Elektra and you stick your tongue out at her. “The duck croquettes are delicious by the way, Loki.”

“Why thank you,” smiles Loki proudly, if a little sourly. “The appetisers are half-finished and that’s the first compliment I’ve heard all evening.”

You and Wanda are quick to coo at him, apologising profusely and reassuring him that as always, his cooking is wonderful and deserving of a Michelin star. Clint is less sympathetic and lobs an olive at Loki’s perfectly combed head. Elektra continues to stuff her face, polishing off the last of the croquettes. Loki takes that as his cue to start on the chicken and you clear everyone’s plates, uncorking another bottle of wine.

A knock on the door takes you by surprise. Wanda uses the opportunity to offer a teasing remark about you having late night visitors and there’s a ripple of laughter. You give your friends the finger before skimming over to the door, combing your fingers through your hair and hoping you don’t bear the obvious symptoms of consuming a few glasses of wine.

“James!”

Blue eyes sparkle back at you, a pink lipped grin curving up amongst the stubble that’s dark save for a few white hairs just by the chin. He’s wearing form-fitting black jeans and boots, a dark button-up shirt with white polka dots just visible beneath a shiny black leather jacket. Perhaps it’s the wine or perhaps it’s how delectable he looks, but you let your eyes roam over him. His grin is more of a smirk now, he’s seen you undress him with your eyes but it’s of little concern.

“I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow.” you say lamely, one hand still on the doorknob.

“After that little _stunt_ you pulled I got an earlier flight.” he explains and you blush. “You gonna let me in, babygirl? Strictly speaking, I oughta be punishing you but I’ll let you try this champagne I got you first.”

You giggle, mind beginning to race at his suggestive words. His tongue darts out, running along the seam of his lips and you almost forget that you have guests.

“Y/N, who’s at the door?”

James peers over your shoulder, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively.

“It’s Wanda’s birthday,” you smile apologetically. “My friends and I are having dinner and a party.”

“Sorry, I should’ve called.” he says genuinely and you quickly shake your head.

“No, it’s alright. You’re welcome to join us, if you like.”

James hesitates for a second, as do you. Meeting friends steps suspiciously into relationship territory, something you’re both wary of. You don’t want to blur the lines and make things uncomfortable. It’s more of a polite invitation on your part, you won’t be offended if he declines. Suffice to say, you’re pleasantly surprised when he smiles.

“Sure,” he accepts quietly. “So long as you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” you smile widely. “Come on.”

Allowing James entrance, you mutter a hurried apology. Not only are your friends crazy, they’re all a little tipsy. He chuckles, the foreign sound making everyone perk up like a meerkat. You clear your throat, eyes flashing warningly.

“Everyone, this is James. James, this is Loki, Elektra, Clint and you already know Wanda.”

James raises a hand, waving it briefly as he smiles politely.

“Please, call me Bucky.” he says charmingly, approaching Wanda first and presenting her with the champagne. “Happy birthday.”

Wanda thanks him, kissing his cheeks in greeting with all the familiarity of a good friend. She shares a look of excitement with you over his shoulder, her eyes wide and you shrug. Clint shakes James’ hand and Elektra bats her eyelashes flirtatiously which he seems immune to before turning around to greet Loki, who stares for a minute.

“My apologies,” he drawls. “I was lost in your eyes.”

Elektra snorts, clapping her hands to her face and you simply shoot an incredulous look at Loki. James smirks and shakes Loki’s hand a little longer than necessary.

“You’re not too shabby yourself, handsome.” flirts James, flashing a wink that makes Loki _blush_.

You stare as James dips a finger in the bubbling sauce, humming softly before turning back around and shoving his hands in his pockets. Your friends are as shell-shocked as you are, but you’re the first to recover, pouring a new glass of wine.

“Hope I’m not intruding.” says James as you hand him the glass.

“Not at all,” smirks Elektra at once. “We were just talking about you actually.”

“ _Elektra_.”

James chuckles and you’re willing to bet that everyone else in the room is swooning just as much as you are. Apart from Clint, but then again, as he points out to James, he has hearing aids that tend to malfunction so everyone needs to stop mumbling. Elektra resumes conversation with James, inquiring after what he does as Loki serves up the chicken. Luckily, he’s made enough for James to enjoy a plateful too.

“Wow, you made this?” asks James, inhaling his plate. “It smells amazing.”

“Thank you, Bucky.” says Loki, puffing his chest out. “You see? Now this is a real gentleman and a good friend, unlike _you_ all.”

Clint boos and Wanda whines at Loki to stop being such a baby as James takes a seat on the velvet footstool. He insists you take it instead and you shake your head, settling on the floor between his legs. A move that once again, doesn’t pass by Elektra unnoticed. You shudder, feeling James’ fingers ghost over your exposed shoulder but his touch is so slight, it’s gone before you know it. A toast is made to honour Wanda’s birthday, before you all dig in.

“So, how d’you all know each other?” asks James curiously, balancing his plate with agility.

You and your friends share a grin, prompting further questioning and it falls to you to explain how five jigsaw pieces have been meshed together.

“When I started university, I used to spend my summers here in Paris,” you explain, swallowing more wine. “Waitressing, au pairing, whatever odd jobs I could find. I met Wanda when she was working in a _fromagerie_.”

“I used to smell so awful at the end of every shift,” gags Wanda, wrinkling her nose. “You were one of the few people who put up with it. And Clint.”

“I work at the _Palais_ _Garnier_ ,” chirps Clint. “I help with the technical side of performances. I used to sneak these two into shows all the time.”

“Until I caught them in the act,” says Elektra, just a tad smug. “My parents have a reserved box all year round. I decided it was more fun to hide in the rafters with these troublemakers.”

“Happily so, you all made a brilliant executive decision in signing up for my supper club,” Loki chips in with a wave of his fork. “And have never looked back since.”

“Jury’s still out.” says Clint in a very audible whisper and James laughs with you all, much to Loki’s chagrin.

“Of course,” adds Elektra far too coyly for your liking. “That’s not the _only_ way we know each other.”

You and Wanda sigh simultaneously, but a few giggles escape courtesy of the wine. Clint pokes Elektra in the shoulder whereas Loki simply smiles serenely at James who is now nudging you, eyes twinkling with mischief. You cave easily, because it’s James and he’s giving you _that_ look, the one where you’d do anything for him.

“Hm,” you mull over how best to explain it. “I once slept with Wanda when we were drunk; Wanda made out with Elektra in Loki’s pantry; Elektra gave Clint a blowjob in the back of a taxi; Clint kissed me to ward off creepy men in a bar and Loki, well, I think Loki’s kissed all of us, if not more.”

“No, not all of you.” corrects Loki, fixing a pointed look in James’ direction.

James grins slyly, sipping his glass of wine.

“Night’s still young.” he winks and Loki applauds you.

“Really, Y/N, how did you find such a divine man to sleep with you?”

“And on that note, I think it’s time to break out the Tequila.”

You stand up to retrieve some shot glasses and James’ smirk widens until it’s positively devilish.

“You gonna tell me all your dirty little secrets?” he asks in a low voice.

You almost wish your friends weren’t here because you can feel your desire for him growing. In a wine-emboldened haze, you wink flirtatiously at him.

“Dirty? Yes. Secrets? Not so much.”

Famous last words, you think bitterly because ten minutes later in a particularly raucous round of Truth or Dare, Wanda has you confessing about the time a police officer caught you giving your ex-boyfriend a blowjob on a side street. Luckily, revenge is sweet and she ends up admitting that the real reason she was fired from the _fromagerie_ when she was nineteen is because she slept with the boss. She discovered he was married when his wife walked in on them going at it in the backroom, goat’s cheese all over the floor.

You put an end to the game and clear the plates, scraping them together loudly and announcing that you’ll get started on the crepes. James kindly offers to wash up.

“I hope my friends aren’t too overbearing.” you apologise, butter sizzling in the pan. “You probably think we’re all hopeless.”

“You kidding? They’re real fun.” grins James, suds up to his elbows. “My age ain’t showing, is it?”

“Oh, definitely. Boring old man.” you tease and he blows bubbles at you.

“Here, let me.”

James takes the pan from you, swirling the crepe batter around with ease. He flips it perfectly and you admire his handiwork, a corny old line “ _you’re good with your hands_ ” on the tip of your tongue. The crepes begin to stack up.

“You can ask me questions too, you know,” he says quietly. “I don’t mind you gettin’ to know me. Just ‘cause we’ve got an arrangement doesn’t mean we can’t talk.”

A smile tugs at your lips.

“Are you going to tell me all your dirty little secrets, James?” you ask, humorously reminiscent of his question earlier and he chuckles.

“I don’t really have any secrets,” he admits. “Specially not the dirty kind.”

“Are you telling me I corrupted you?”

“You sure did, babygirl. You corrupted me with sex and charm.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around.” you giggle, dipping your finger in the chocolate sauce. “Not that I’m complaining.”

You lick the chocolate off with relish, James’ tongue darting out to wet his lips. His eyes darken as they flit back up to yours.

“Guess I’ll just have to corrupt you some more.”

* * *

Corruption works both ways. In your case anyway. James may not have any “ _dirty little secrets_ ” but he’s certainly no angel. It’s a strange game, ring of fire meshed with truth or dare, and unsurprisingly prompted by Wanda who seemingly turns into a giggly schoolgirl when she’s drunk. A tipsy Elektra is the devil on her shoulder and for once, you don’t bother to reign either of them in. By the time the party guests arrive, James’ cheeks are flushed pink from the alcohol and his fingers are never far from your bared arms, slowly rubbing circles on your skin.

“Guys!” screams Wanda, flapping her arms excitedly. “Come on, let’s do shots!”

The tequila is poured and James reaches for the salt only to have it snatched away by Loki, who clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“Oh no,” says Loki mischievously. “That won’t do. Y/N, perhaps you’d care to show Bucky how we do shots around here.”

“Come on, birthday girl,” you say, beckoning at Wanda. “Get over here.”

James quirks a brow as you giggle and Wanda flashes you a wink. She pops a lime wedge in her mouth and out of the corner of your eye, you see James watching with a sudden intensity. With a smirk, you lick a strip up Wanda’s neck and sprinkle a little salt. She squirms a little, giggling as a shot glass is tucked into the front of her top, right between her breasts. Elektra’s egging you on and James is biting his lip, unable to tear his eyes away from you.

You lick the salt off Wanda’s neck before dipping your head, your nose softly trailing down her soft skin as you wrap your lips around the shot glass. There’s a faint hint of her flowery perfume. You knock the tequila back before leaning in, your mouth brushing hers as you pluck the lime wedge from between her lips. Feeling James’ eyes on you, you drag it out and Wanda obliges, kissing you back. Warmth spreads through your body as you remember what she feels like. Her lips are so soft, softer than James and her fingers thread in your hair. There’s something uniquely sensual about kissing a woman, you’ve almost forgotten how _nice_ it is. Your palm slides down Wanda’s neck, her soft curves pressed against you as she deepens the kiss.

Clint’s jeers pull you apart and when you dare to peek at James, he’s watching you like a man possessed. His eyes have blackened, a mere ring of blue barely visibly as he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. You’ve seen that look before. It’s dangerous, enticing, alluring. Heat radiates from him. His steely gaze tells you he’s going to ruin you and you’ll beg him not to stop. A jolt of desire courses through you, Loki’s voice bringing you back to the moment.

“Well, what say you, Bucky?” he smirks, eyes darting between you.

“Only if you’re volunteerin’, pal.” replies James with a smirk of his own.

Loki is positively thrilled as James takes the salt from Elektra. You’re not quite sure what he’s so smug about because if he thinks he’s one upping you, he might be surprised to learn you’re secretly loving this. Your head’s a little fuzzy from all the drinking, but you feel _good_. If anything, you’re a little surprised that James would so readily agree but you know he has a devilish streak and that surprise vanishes when he flashes you a charming smirk before taking the shot. It’s tucked in Loki’s waistband, and his lips brush Loki’s abdomen as they wrap around the shot glass. James doesn’t hesitate, not when throwing the shot back nor when his mouth fuses with Loki’s as he sucks at the lime wedge.

There’s a disappointed whine from Loki when it’s over far too soon for his liking. James isn’t apologetic in the slightest, that was a show more for you than anyone and needless to say, it’s a struggle for you to concentrate on anything else but the image of James’ nipping at Loki’s bottom lip whilst Clint, Elektra and Wanda all do their shots. Your interest flags until they’re done and the tequila bottle is back in your hands.

You crook your finger, beckoning James forward and he grins down at you as you unbutton his shirt. You ignore Elektra’s wolf whistle and flatten your palm against James’ chest, pushing him firmly until he’s splayed out on your coffee table, legs parted invitingly. Inhibitions vanish, the party around you is a swirl of loud music, dancing bodies and blurred lights. You can feel James tense beneath you when you languidly lick the salt from his neck. His hands curl into fists, an attempt to keep them from straying to you. Loki takes great pleasure in pouring the tequila and you hear a sharp intake of breath and a few hoarse curses as you lap at the tequila spilling down James’ chest. It rains into the ridges of his muscles and you trace them with your tongue, lapping at his navel where the alcohol has gathered. He’s breathing hard and fast as you raise your lips to his, the lime wedge trapped as you resist the urge to kiss him how you really want to.

James tastes of salt and tequila. It’s a quick kiss, but eager and hot, messy but intense. You can hear his low groan when you drag yourself away.

“Come on, James. Let’s go dance.”

You dance with James with songs that blend into one, your body flush against his. You do another shot with Elektra, Loki does one with Clint and Wanda’s struck by giggles when James’ licks at the tequila pooled at her navel. You dance some more, your skin hot and sticky and all too aware of James’ proximity. You feel light, happy, like you could fly but you’re dragged down by your growing want for him. He’s been eyeing you all night, suggestive glances and heated kisses, wandering hands and whispered revelations of “ _I’m gonna fuck you raw_.” You know he’s drunk because his proper manners have made way for his Brooklyn accent, every word seeped in it but it’s sexy to hear. It doesn’t take long for either of you to cave in your animal instincts.

Your lips collide, James’ tongue immediately seeking entrance and coaxing a moan from you that’s drowned out by the music. You can feel hot bodies around you, swaying rhythmically but James is the only one you give your attention to. Tequila lingers on his tongue but it’s the taste of him that has you so drunk. One hand in his hair, yanking his head down, one hand fisted in his shirt.

James sucks your lower lip into his mouth, nipping until it’s red and swollen. You’re gasping uncontrollably but you couldn’t give a fuck if your friends see or hear. James doesn’t seem to care either, his kiss is sloppy and wet as his hands slip under your camisole. His touch has you melting against him, the hardness in his jeans growing steadily noticeable. It’s impossible to resist and your hand cups around his erection, making him groan into your mouth. The sound dampens your panties, arousal pooling thick and fast.

You whine when James pulls away, your brain a foggy mess as you take in his dishevelled appearance, from his darkened eyes to his wet lips and hair that’s mussed courtesy of you. His hands are dangerously low on your hips as he whirls you around. He presses his chest to your back and you stretch an arm up, snaking your hand back in his hair as you grind against him. He buries his face in your hair, raising the hem of your camisole far enough to run his fingers along a sliver of skin.

“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, babygirl.” he croons in your ear and you quiver at how gruff his voice is. “Been wantin’ to get my hands on you all night, you know that?”

You hum, not that James hears it, he’s busy trailing kisses down your neck. Your hips drag against his and all you can think of is how there are too many clothes in the way.

“And I can’t wait any longer, I’m gonna fuck you right now.”

You blink so fast it’s dizzying, wondering if you heard him right. You have, because James has the filthiest grin on his face, one that’s all too familiar and promises that you’ll be feeling him tomorrow.

The music is pounding in your ears as James drags you into the stairwell. You stumble slightly, but not enough to deter either of you. It’s so hot, the air around you, James’ lips, your skin. You feel like you’re on fire but you don’t want it to end. Limbs are tangled, you’re so pressed so tightly against him you’re not sure where you end and he begins but it’s still not close enough. A whine resounds in your throat and James pushes you back against the cold wall.

“ _Fuck_ , princess,” he growls, lips attacking your neck. “Fuck, I want you so fuckin’ bad.”

His shirt is open, sweat slicked chest still sticky with remnants of the tequila and you scrape your fingernails over the bared skin on your path to his jeans. James already has your pants at your ankles and you step out of them, squeaking when he hoists you up.

“You’re so fuckin’, pretty.” he says as you push his jeans down to his knees. “You gonna let me fuck you like this?”

James doesn’t bother with proper decorum, pushing your panties aside and whispering pure filth in your ear as he teases you with his fingers. You moan, struggling to think straight as you slide the condom over his cock. He’s hard, throbbing beneath your hand and you moan at the sight, hurrying because you’re too impatient.

The air is snatched from your lungs when James thrusts into you. His grunt is strangled when you bite down on his shoulder, trying to contain your moans. You tighten your legs around his waist, rocking against him to meet every thrust. James is merciless. It’s not the time for sweet and slow. He’s harsh, every thrust is bruising but it stings in the most delicious way and you somehow find the words to beg him for more.

“You like that, princess?” he says, tongue licking down a track the salt’s left behind on your collarbone. “You like me fuckin' you out here? Anyone could see us. Fuck, you’re a dirty little girl.”

None of your words are coherent, save for his name. It’s the one thing you choke out and he revels in that, his hips snapping faster with every punishing thrust. You won’t last, not when James is spewing utter filth and filling you with his cock. You’re aching in a way that straddles the line between pain and pleasure and you claw at his shoulders, his shirt slipping down his arms, and he seems to understand.

“‘M close too, babygirl. C’mon, come for me. I wanna feel you come around my cock.”

You let go, the bliss you’ve been holding back washing over you and if it wasn’t for James crashing his lips against yours you’re sure the whole building would have heard you scream his name. You’re trembling as he comes almost immediately after you, his hips bucking against yours.

James is a blur. You barely hear his praises, his voice muffled against your sweat slicked skin. You feel lightheaded, whimpering as he slides out of you. He kisses you in an unrestrained way, pulling back in time to gaze at you with glazed eyes.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he chuckles with a crooked grin. “Shit, princess, where’ve you been all my life?”

You smile weakly, blushing as you hurriedly slip back into your pants. James tucks himself back into his jeans, still chuckling to himself. You tame your ruffled hair and arrange your rumpled clothes back into place, as does he but when you return to the party in time for the cake, it’s pretty clear exactly what you were doing. You’re smug, grinning at your friends who look at you, equally impressed and scandalised. You let James hand you another shot and then you pull him back to the dancefloor. It might be Wanda’s birthday but you’re the one that feels lucky.

* * *

Warmth settles over Bucky and he shifts, basking in how cosy he is. Sunlight falls over his skin and he dares to open an eye. It takes a couple of minutes for him to register the scene that unfolds around him. He’s in your bed, that much he’s sure of. How he got here is a mystery.

Bucky’s head rests comfortably on Elektra’s lap, the glossy haired woman dead to the world as she snores. Clint is sprawled at the end of the mattress, his hair sticking up at odd angles. Bucky can’t help but smile at finding you curled up against him, your breath tickling his bare chest and your arm wrapped around his waist. Wanda’s tangled with you, her face buried in your hair and her feet on Clint’s back. Bucky frowns, not spotting Loki. Then, it dawns on him that it’s not _your_ arm tossed across his middle. Loki’s spooning him.

The hangover chooses to rear its ugly head and Bucky groans before closing his eyes. He’s definitely too old for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	10. Dix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James has a hangover. You visit the Château de Versailles.
> 
> Smut Warnings: breast play, dirty talk, female masturbation, light d/s themes, mirror sex, nude modelling, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. Oh gosh, this turned into a bit of a monster of a chapter. I didn't mean for it to be so long but here we are. I've delved a little deeper into Bucky's artistic side, as well as my own French history notes. Both of which were quite fun, so I hope you enjoy the impromptu history lesson. 
> 
> As always, I do love hearing your feedback so please leave a comment. It's so much fun chatting with you all and hearing what you think. I'm always open to your ideas and requests, so feel free to leave them. You can ask anonymously on my Tumblr (link in the end notes) if you feel a little shy.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

Steve opens the door and with one glance at the crumpled grump of a man before him, promptly doubles over in a fit of laughter. Bucky grumbles from behind his dark sunglasses, no hesitation in the way he shoves past his best friend.

Sunday tradition dictates lunch with Steve and Peggy. Their modest apartment is the polar opposite of his, truly, Steve is the real artist and his home has the vintage charm to prove it. It’s located in the 9th _arrondissement_ and has been renovated from a carousel workshop. Canvases occupy the floor space that’s not covered in woven rugs, the lingering smell of turpentine hovers in the air and the kitchen is rustic with its distressed cabinets and cast iron oven.

Sam and Maria sit at the table. Peggy stirs a big pot. They all jerk up at the sound of footsteps and hysterical laughter. Bucky continues to ignore Steve and all but collapses in the seat beside Sam with a loud groan. He looks like shit, he _feels_ like shit and if he hadn’t had such a good time last night he would be regretting drinking his body weight in tequila right now. His involuntary gag at the wine Maria pushes towards him confirms his very obvious hangover.

“Looks like someone had a good night.” teases Maria.

Bucky groans and there’s a collective titter. Peggy pats him on the shoulder sympathetically and offers to make him a coffee. He accepts gratefully, proclaiming that she is the only decent friend he has. She shatters the illusion when she asks him if he plans to spend the rest of his future partying with young women.

“I hate you all.” says Bucky flatly, giving each and every one of his friends a dirty look.

“Hey,” quips Sam with a mocking grin. “Not our fault that we’re mature and sophisticated adults and you’ve decided to turn into Hugh Hefner.”

“You mean you’re old and boring?” snaps Bucky, all but draining his cup of coffee in one mouthful.

“Oh, come on, Buck,” says Steve, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Do you have a velvet robe and slippers?”

“Fuck you, Rogers.”

“I really hope you don’t keep her up late on a school night, Barnes,” adds Maria. “Sam would be pissed if she’s late to a class.”

“Not you too.” groans Bucky, banging his forehead against the table.

“For what it’s worth,” smiles Peggy, refilling his coffee. “I think it’s lovely you’re having fun with her.”

“Thank you, Peggy.”

“Does she call you _Daddy_? I hear it’s a popular kink amongst the youth today.”

Bucky threatens to leave as his friends howl with laughter and Steve pushes him back down in his chair. It’s unspoken, that their teasing comes from good hearts. They’re all truly happy for him really, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to drop the jokes anytime soon. Bucky isn’t nearly as bothered as he pretends to be. Except for with Sam.

“You better not be givin’ her any shit, Wilson.”

An “ _ooh_ ” echoes through the kitchen, mocking at the sudden protectiveness Bucky displays but Sam chuckles, shaking his head.

“Even if I did, I think she could handle herself.” grins Sam.

“Oh, has he had the good sense to pick a smart one?” pipes Peggy, thrusting bowls into Steve’s arms.

“The smartest,” nods Maria. “She broke a guy’s nose when he got too handsy during a class.”

“She’s a _life_ _model_?” asks Peggy, dropping a pot of _Boeuf_ _Bourguignon_ in the centre of the table.

“And a pretty good writer too,” says Sam, passing glasses of water down the table. “I’m glad she stuck to it instead of becoming a doctor.”

“What?” blinks Bucky, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head.

“Yeah, it was the first task I set the class,” hums Sam, thanking Peggy for the steaming bowl she hands him. “Writing about something that scared them. She wrote about her parents’ expectations. I remember ‘cause it was the realest piece of writing I had read in the longest time.”

Bucky looks down at his bowl of beef, a frown creasing his forehead. He feels… uncomfortable. Families aren’t a common topic between you but he feels as if he’s betrayed your trust somehow, hearing about your parents from Sam.

“You should bring her on Friday night.”

“Huh?”

“The gala,” repeats Steve, waving his spoon. “It’d be a good chance for her to network.”

“Oh, right,” he nods absently, digging into his food. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“Speaking of, Matt and Foggy will be arriving on Thursday so I thought we could all get together.”

There’s murmurs, all in agreement and Bucky faintly blushes as he clears his throat.

“I, uh, can’t. Sorry.”

“And why would that be?” inquires Peggy.

“I might have plans.” he shrugs, shovelling beef stew into his mouth.

“And do these plans involve your little sugar baby?”

Bucky grimaces, not entirely keen on referring to you as such. As he explains to his frolicsome friends, it’s not some sort of power trip or freaky kink. He left New York because he realised he didn’t want that life anymore. A reevaluation of his life, that’s what it is. Commitment, children, both are out of the question. You’re a perfect match for the lifestyle he wants.

A perpetual honeymoon stage, if he can call it that. He treats you well, he’s certain of that. He gets the thrill of a romantic evening with a beautiful woman. He takes care of you, that part he likes. He feels in control, a saviour, knowing you have less to worry about simply because he has the cash to ensure your security. Not to mention, the sexual chemistry is off the charts. But that conversation is shut down quickly because Sam will never be able to face you ever again. Bucky wouldn’t mind that.

“I dunno, man,” says Sam with a shake of his head. “You can play Sugar Daddy all you want, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

Bucky’s about to vehemently deny any feelings beyond sexual attraction but his phone buzzes, the flash of your name distracting him easily enough. He’s on the receiving end of photographs he has absolutely no recognition of, he was drunk last night yes, but he’s somewhat shocked to learn he was so drunk he completely missed the disposable cameras. He doesn’t remember leaning on the fridge, a cigarette tucked into his smirk and you winking at the camera. He doesn’t remember licking cake frosting off his fingers. And he certainly doesn’t remember his limbs tangled with Wanda and Elektra in the bathtub, sitting between your legs and grinning into your thigh as you try not to spill your wine all over him.

“Hey!” cried Bucky, as Steve swipes his phone. “Steve!”

Bucky will never heard the end of those photographs.

* * *

James is taking you out today. It’s seven in the morning and you reread his text that states he’ll pick you up in an hour. That’s the only detail you’re given. You fix yourself a cup of coffee, puffing a cigarette between your lips as you rifle through your clothes in an attempt to find something suitable. “ _Clear your schedule_ ” isn’t much to go on. You settle for a navy blue wrap dress and a leather jacket. Red lipstick, naturally. Heels that aren’t too high. Effortlessly messy hair because he seems to like that.

A man of his word, you spot James’ car from your window at precisely eight o’clock and it takes a surprising amount of effort to not race downstairs. Jarvis is waiting outside, he greets you politely as he opens the passenger door and you slide in as gracefully as you can manage.

Impeccably handsome as ever, James acknowledges your presence without looking up from his phone. Your eyes drift over him. Black jeans, all the better to hug his thighs. Cornflower blue sweater, brings out the colour of his eyes. Black wool overcoat, because he’s suave enough to pull it off casually. A flicker of disappointment in your eyes when you notice he’s shaved, his beard reduced down to a mere five o’clock shadow. He won’t hear a complaint from you though, not when you’re helpless to admire the now exposed sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. You briefly consider closing the gap between you, mind pondering about peppering kisses along his jawline, the rough, short stubble scratching your thighs as he makes you come undone with his tongue.

James a certain talent for knowing precisely what you’re thinking. He’s tucked his phone away and is giving you that smirk he seems to reserve solely for you. Except, there’s a certain… _hardness_ to it. Something you’ve not seen before. You know better than to probe. He isn’t depositing a thousand euros into your bank account for you to ask after his feelings. So you muster a smirk of your own as you do up your seatbelt.

“Did you like the photographs?” you ask, a teasing tone underlying your question.

“Are you mocking me, Miss. Y/L/N?” he retorts playfully.

“I would never,” you reply innocently. “I just wanted to make sure you had as much of a good time as it looks in the photographs.”

James rolls his eyes, biting his lip as he considers his next move. You detect a flicker of concern, but you have no desire to break your promise. Those photographs won’t find themselves anywhere except for the old biscuit tin they’re hidden in.

“It _was_ fun,” he admits with a smile before cheekily adding on, “You sure know how to show an old man a good time.”

“Speaking of showing someone a good time, is this where you tell me what you’ve got planned?”

“Nope,” he says with relish. “But you’ll like it. Promise.”

You pout but it’s futile, he point blank refuses before narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Have you had breakfast?”

You open your mouth but he cuts across you.

“More than just coffee and cigarettes?”

You hesitate, only for a split second, but it’s enough to answer his question. There’s little reason to lie to him, he knows you better than you give him credit for. Jarvis is instructed to make a stop and James’ satisfaction comes from you polishing off two croissants a large hot chocolate. He opts for a black coffee himself and small talk about Wanda’s party is exchanged for the duration of the journey. You’re clueless when Jarvis announces your arrival, but still, your questions go unanswered. Your surroundings are unfamiliar, you’re unsure if you’re even in Paris anymore.

“ _Putain_.” you hiss quietly, your heels catching in the uneven cobbles.

James, who’s been silently treading just ahead of you thus far, turns around. His eyes drift down to your heels and you want to snark about how you could have dressed better if he had simply told you his plans but he holds out his hand, smiling softly. You take it, happily so, his large fingers engulfing your own as he keeps you steady. Heat radiates from him, his skin is warm against your own. You like the way your hand so neatly slots in with his. A commanding, possessive grip, you’re lost in the sensation and he suddenly stops and your breath catches in your throat.

A brilliant blue sky, almost the precise shade of James’ sweater. It’s crisp and bright, the wind whips and stings your eyes. You blink away the tears, you want to take in the breathtaking view. Wrought iron gates gilded in gold. Intimidating as they are an expression of power but you can’t help how stunned you feel walking through them into the royal courtyard, your hand still firmly encased in James’. A statue of Louis XIV greets you, but you’re far more interested in what lies beyond.

“ _Château de Versailles_.” you say through a smile.

The wind is howling in your ears but James hears you and he smiles too, evidently pleased by your awestruck expression. He gives your hand a little squeeze as you stop at the Marble Court to take in all its splendour. You’re unsure if you even possess the right vocabulary to describe how spectacular the front facade is. Marble pillars, long windows and more gold gilding. Busts and statues adorn the stone coloured walls and a bright blue clock with a gold sun in its centre tells you it’s just gone nine. It’s extravagant but in the most dreamlike way.

“It’s _beautiful_.” you breathe and James’ smile widens.

“You’ve never been here before?” he asks and you shake your head. “Good.”

“Good?” you laugh. “You mean you’re not going to berate me for not visiting somewhere so iconic?”

“Nah, I like being the one who gets to show you this place,” he grins. “‘S why I didn’t tell you. There’s nothing like seeing Versailles for the first time.”

Your cheeks colour at his admission but he tugs at your hand, beckoning at the entrance.

“Your palace awaits, princess.”

The gate has only just opened and it’s an unassuming weekday in Autumn so you’re able to take your time without bumping into too many boisterous tourists. Although, you certainly could pass as one with your glazed eyes that sparkle with excitement. James is more collected, but just as enamoured as he tells you that the Château boasts two thousand windows and almost seventy staircases. You quickly learn that there’s no need to refer to the signposts, the man beside you has superior enough knowledge of the Château’s history.

Of course, there is one subject that is his pride and joy. Art. James’ eyes rarely drift from the ceiling and it’s hardly a surprise. Not when amidst the intricate gold moldings are some of the most beautiful paintings you have ever beheld.

“The approved style of painting at the time of Louis XIV was a version of Italian Baroque,” explains James, his free hand gesturing enthusiastically. “Hence the extravagance and ornate detail.”

“It reminds me of the Renaissance.” you offer.

You wince slightly, unsure if you’ve made an astute observation or just insulted James. He chuckles, giving you a fond look as you stroll through the rooms hand-in-hand.

“Some might argue it was a rebellion against the restrained proportions of Renaissance classicism,” he counters and you nod, pretending you understand perfectly. “But yes, you could say it’s a descendent of Italian Renaissance painting.”

You colour slightly and try to make your meaning clearer.

“I just meant that the images, they’re all set against the sky. The people, and the angels, the way that they’re all posing, it’s almost... religious.”

If James can tell that you’re talking out of your ass he makes no effort to embarrass you. He doesn’t humour you either. He continues to converse with you intelligently, as if you’re as knowledgeable as he is. It’s not unkind. It’s as much him indulging in his passion as it is him sharing his superior expertise. And secretly, his intelligence adds to his attractiveness. He looks so pretty, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he talks.

“You’re not wrong about Renaissance influences,” he says, eyes cast upwards. “Sky ceiling murals developed during the Renaissance and then culminated during the Baroque. Here.”

James directs you to the centre of the room with a gentle tug of your hand. A finger slides under your chin, lifting it so you’re looking up at the beautifully painted ceiling.

“What’s it look like?” he asks, voice low.

You blink, eyes dancing between the sky, cloud and sun, soaring figures and fluidly moving angels. This time, you don’t bother trying to sound frilly.

“It’s like I’m… looking through.” you answer with uncertainty.

“Yeah,” he whispers with wonder. “That’s exactly right. It’s meant to be an illusion, like there’s layers and depth. You’re just there to spectate.”

You stand that way in silence for a few more minutes. It’s incredible, yes, but you’re more taken with how content James looks, his lips parted in a small smile, eyes crinkled at the corners and the blue irises more alive than you’ve ever seen. He notices you staring and a blush blankets his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I’m not boring you, am I?”

“No,” you smile. “Not one bit.”

Nevertheless, James takes your hand once more, eyes twinkling.

“C’mon, the next room’s gonna be your favourite.”

“Why, what’s the next room?”

It turns out that all that glitters _is_ gold. You round the corner and freeze in your tracks, overwhelmed by the sudden beauty that is presented before you. Arch shaped windows run the length of the wall to your right, each one gleaming and allowing sunshine to pour through. Light bounces off the crystal chandeliers that hang in triplets, faux candles adding to the lavish decoration. Along the left wall, arch shaped mirrors tile the marble wall, red velvet footstools dotted underneath. The mirrors sparkle, the gold detailing gleams proudly, and you wish you were the only ones here.

“The Hall of Mirrors.” you breathe.

Another squeeze of your hand and your glee is rather poorly hidden from James. He’s grinning at you, too happy to care that there’s a family behind you complaining that you’re blocking their path.

“I’ve only ever seen it in Marie Antoinette,” you whisper, as if loud noises will disrupt the magic. “And in the Dior commercial with Charlize Theron.”

“Not that I wouldn’t appreciate you walkin’ down the Hall stripping,” winks James flirtatiously. “You should probably keep your dress on.”

James doesn’t object to you taking your time, he offers to take a photograph of you but you decline. You don’t want to live this moment through a snapshot, you want to keep the memory forever. You stop in front of the second mirror and he moves behind you. Your eyes meet in the reflection. His hands are on your hips as he brings his mouth to your ear.

“Now, if I had my way and there was no-one else here,” he whispers huskily. “It’d go somethin’ like this.”

A shiver races down your spine as James’ lips brush your earlobe, his fingers electrifying through the soft jersey of your dress. He’s pressed against you, enough for you to feel every one of his gloriously hard muscles without it being inappropriate. Even in the reflection, you can see his eyes have blackened with lust, desire dripping from his every word.

“You’d stand in front of this mirror, just like you are now. I’d take your jacket off first and then your dress.”

His hands drift over the neatly tied knot that holds your dress together and you feel butterflies bloom in your belly.

“I’d strip you until you’re naked, every beautiful inch of you bare just for me.”

“And then?” you dare to whisper back, and he smirks impishly.

“I’d kiss you,” he answers. “‘Your lips, your neck, all over, ‘til you want more.”

You hum, encouraging him to continue.

“And then, when you’re begging for me to fuck you, I’d stop ‘cause I wanna draw you.”

You whine disappointedly, as if that’s actually what’s happening and your bottom lip pushes out in a very disgruntled pout. James roars with laughter, his chest vibrating with the sound as he continues to stare at you in a way that makes white hot flames lick between your thighs. Your cheek is pecked chastely, his scruff barely tickling.

“C’mon, princess.”

You’re on edge as you continue through the Château, James’ fantasy replaying in your memory and threatening to drive you mad with desire. It’s tasking to concentrate on anything anymore. It’s almost unnerving, the way he knows exactly what to do and say. He manages to switch from adorable art nerd to sexy sugar daddy in less than five seconds and if you weren’t desperate to be wrecked by him before you certainly are now.

James hauls you from your thoughts when you enter the Queen’s Bedchamber. It’s lighter in here, pastel walls with intricate floral patterns. Pinks, greens, golds. No less luxurious than the other rooms but a welcome change from the regal reds and decadent brown marble.

“Oh, now I really do feel like a princess.”

Your shoulders straighten and your chin juts out as you sashay through the room as you imagine Marie Antoinette would. You picture yourself in a beautiful ballgown, your skirt swishing and your hair in a trendy style. James plays along, letting go of your hand so he can offer you his arm instead and you curtsy, before resting your hand in the crook of his elbow.

You conclude the rest of the tour in this fashion before retreating to the first floor where Restaurant Angelina is located. An elegant tea room, it’s nice and quiet, most visitors opting to grab something from the takeaway counter. Naturally, James doesn’t take the cheap way out and you’re seated at a table by the window, sunshine pouring in and a pretty view of the Château laid out for you to enjoy. James sits with his shoulders rolled back and you notice there’s a steely edge to his eyes again. He orders for you, _Ravioli à la truffe_ , _crème de Parmesan et roquette_ to begin with, and then _Saint-Honoré_ along with Angelina’s famous _chocolat chaud_.

“Chocolate was introduced in France for Louis XIII’s marriage,” says James informatively. “And Louis XV’s mistresses were big fans of hot chocolate. They appreciated it for its aphrodisiac virtues.”

“Virtues?” you smirk. “Or vices?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it depends on who’s buying you a hot chocolate.”

James grins and takes a bite of his own dessert, the aptly named _Paris-New York_. A concoction of choux pastry, praline cream and crunchy pecan. You’ve come to learn he has an insatiable sweet tooth but resist the urge to make a flirtatious joke. He shifts in his seat slightly, casting his eyes up at you.

“There’s a gala tomorrow night,” he says carefully. “It’s an annual event, help fundraise for the _Académie_ , encourage awareness of the Arts, that sort of thing. I want you to come with me.”

You sip your hot chocolate. A swirling in your stomach tells you there’s more to the story than James is letting on and you consider asking him for more details. He doesn’t give you the chance.

“You’ll need a new dress, of course,” he says, pulling his phone out. “I’ll have a selection brought to my apartment and you can choose which you like best. Jarvis’ll pick you up in the afternoon.”

That’s all that’s said on the matter, James’ voice has a tone of finality and you know the decision is already made for you. Not that you mind too much, the chance to wear a pretty dress and hang off James’ tuxedo clad arm sounds like a rather glorious way to spend a Friday night. You smile, and he looks relieved. You wonder why.

* * *

After a stroll around the gardens, Bucky feels better. His swirling gut has nothing to do with his high intake of sugar and everything to do with you. Reluctant acknowledgment of his growing attachment to you aside, Sam is the culprit for bringing said attachment to the surface of his brain. Times were simpler when he put your connection down to sexual chemistry.

It’s an attempt to recreate that illusion. Your hair slightly damp, your skin glossy from the heat. You’re in the bath, bubbles few and far between in lieu of rose coloured water. You’re leaning over the side, admiring the view of the Eiffel Tower and he, Bucky, is admiring the view of you. His stool is raised above you, your gorgeous body on display as you languidly pluck a pistachio green macaron from the box and raise it to your lips. Your pink tongue darts out, catching a stray crumb and he tries to deflect the image of you doing that on your knees, your hand wrapped around his cock.

Bucky shifts and pulls his sketchbook closer as if it will push his dirty thoughts far away. He pauses, confused for a moment. This whole _arrangement_ is built on sex. Those are the exact thoughts he should be having, not ones of waking up beside you, or taking leisurely strolls in the Tuileries with you. You move and the water splosh echoes in the bathroom. He lets his eyes drift over your ass and it distracts him. As it should.

“Why didn’t you pursue art?”

“Huh?” he blinks, and you smile. “Oh, uh, guess I didn’t think it was a viable career path.”

“But you enjoy it so much.”

“I’m not cut out for the starving artist lifestyle,” he says playfully. “Maybe as a hobby, but, I like my luxuries.”

“I had no idea,” you tease and he rolls his eyes. “My parents wanted me to be a doctor, you know.”

“Really?” he asks, relieved that now he has this information from you.

“Yes,” you nod with a grin. “I studied medicine for about six weeks and then changed to English and French. Bit of a nasty shock for my parents when they came to my graduation.”

Bucky goggles and you giggle cheekily, reaching for the champagne.

“And then I ran away to Paris. You can imagine how disappointed they are.”

You’re unperturbed, ever the embodiment of a carefree life. He has nothing against you going against your parents’ wishes, you should do what makes you happy. You are happy, he thinks.

“My parents didn’t think art was a viable career path,” admits Bucky, correcting his earlier stance. “My dad anyway, he’s always been a hardass.”

An unspoken warmth, a flicker of understanding but no sympathy. Which is a good thing because it’s the last thing he wants.

“He’s pretty disappointed in me too,” he adds. “His son in his thirties, no wife or kids. Scandalous.”

“Do you want a wife and children?”

“‘M not sure.”

“Then you shouldn’t have them,” you say simply. “Those are the kind of commitments that you can’t easily back out of, especially children. You should only have those things if that’s what you truly want. And even then, they’re no guarantee of happiness.”

“No handsome young man asked for your hand in marriage?” jokes Bucky. “Professed his desire for you to be the mother of his children?”

You scoff and swallow your glass of champagne, your legs sliding against each other as you resume your original position.

“Maybe they have,” you wink. “But maybe I prefer a handsome older man. The kind who treat me like a princess and knows exactly how to fuck me.”

Bucky stills. You say it so innocently. You’re anything but innocent. You know what buttons to push and how to push them. Just for that, he’s going to toy with you. He closes his sketchbook and stands, grabbing the hem of his sweater and pulling it over his head. Your gaze never waivers from him as he undoes the button on his jeans, but that’s where he stops. He holds out a towel for you.

* * *

Excitement flutters through you. Your bloods hums, your heart races and you try not to look desperate as you drag the towel across your skin. James leads you out in the bedroom and you don’t pass up the opportunity to admire how his ass looks in those jeans. You’re granted five seconds before he turns around, sliding an arm around your waist and pulling you until you’re pressed against his bare chest. His other hand cups your cheek with a tender possessiveness, his lips a breath away from yours.

No sooner do your eyes flicker down to his lips does he kiss you, capturing your lips with the ruthlessness that he’s been holding back all day. You moan, pressing further into him and melting as slick heat pulses through you. James glides his tongue along your bottom lip and you grant him entrance easily. Not that he ever needs to put up much of a fight. You always give into him one way or another.

Just as your hands grip the waistband of his jeans, he pulls away, brushing his lips on yours a final time. He nips with his teeth and your eyes snap open, a whimper catching in your throat. His hands grip you by the waist, steering you gently until you have your back to him. There’s a mirror in front of you, a floor length one and you catch his dark smirk in the reflection. Suddenly, you know exactly what he’s going to do.

James leans down, pressing a featherlight kiss to your neck. Your lashes flutter but he squeezes your waist.

“Eyes open, princess,” he orders. “Watch.”

He cups your arms and you look at his fingers against your skin. They’re strong, powerful and talented. You don’t think there’s an inch of this man that isn’t attractive. His hands ghost down your arms, goosebumps erupting in their wake and he scrapes his teeth along your earlobe. You shiver, and he chuckles lowly.

“Cold?” he teases, pressing another kiss to your neck.

You shake your head and James grins, continuing his exquisite torture. Your skin is ablaze as his thumbs sweep the underside of your breasts, back and forth, over and over until you’re struggling to stay still. His smirk widens, eyes holding yours briefly before he sucks at the skin in the crook of your neck. You gasp and he hums blissfully. His fingers still circle your breasts and you can feel his erection on your ass, insistent despite the leisure of his touch.

“I bet you’re so wet right now, babygirl.” he whispers, hands softly drifting down your sides.

For a second, you think he’s going to go lower, to where you’re needy for him but he veers back up to your breasts and you hold back a whine.

“You could use your fingers and find out.” you pout and you’re treated to that chuckle again.

“Not how this works. Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’m wet. _Sir_.”

 _That_ earns a growl and you’re momentarily pleased with yourself but then his thumbs finally sweep over your nipples and you sigh in relief. His touch wrenches a gasp from you, but then it’s gone again. Every sensation is drawn out, his skilled fingers setting nerves alight and your senses into high alert.

“I could do this all day,” he teases. “Spend hours kissin’ you, touchin’ you, not even fuckin’ you.”

An open mouthed kiss on your throat and his fingers find your nipples again, making you moan and arch. He squeezes the hard peaks and you cry out, the longing so intense it borders on the edge of pain.

“James?”

He hums into your shoulder and you squirm.

“James, please.”

He tuts and you bite your lip.

“James… sir? Please.”

He sighs, as if it’s a great task but his fingers begin a trail down your body, stopping just short of your hips. You buck against him.

“Please what, princess?” he coos. “You gotta ask nicely.”

You can feel your whole body blushing. James is the only one who’s ever elicited such reactions from you and in that moment, you’ve never wanted as bad as him. So you swallow your pride and meet his gaze in the reflection.

“Please, sir. I want you to make me come.”

James continues to rub circles in your hips, no effort to do as you’ve requested.

“Please, sir,” you mewl, so turned on you’re babbling of your own accord. “Please, I need it so bad. I need you to fuck me. Anyway you want, just please make me come.”

James’ grin teeters between devilish and dangerous. You learn why, because he moves away and you whine instinctively at the loss.

“Nah.” he says cheerfully, retrieving his sketchbook and sitting on the edge of the bed. “I wanna draw you like this.”

You huff, making your misery plain and clear but he grins at you in the mirror, before his face hardens and he instructs you to remain there. You shift. You’re wetter and hotter than you’ve ever been in your life and James has the audacity to simply sit there and _draw_ _you_. He’s positively sinful, sitting there with his jeans unbuttoned to offer a peek at his black boxers. His muscles flex as he moves the pencil gracefully across the paper, and your eyes follow the veins of his forearms. His hair is ruffled, and his plump lips curve into a filthy smile when you pout at him. That alone makes your decision for you.

James’ eyes narrow as you glide your fingers effortlessly across your collarbone. You moan quietly, training your eyes on his as you trail your hand over your breasts, mimicking his earlier movements. Granted, it’s not the same as his touch but it feels good. You’re growing dangerously close to the edge, your fingers circle your clit. He’s watching you, waiting to see what you do next and you dare him to make a move because if he won’t do it, you will.

You squeak when his fingers close over your wrist, stilling you instantly as he glares at your reflection. His jaw is clenched, dark eyes almost menacing as they rake over you. He’s not angry, not really, but you’re willing to play along if he is. James lifts your hands, your palms lie flat either side of the mirror and you feel his hand on your lower back, pressing firmly until you’re leaning forward.

“Don’t move,” he warns you huskily. “Or I’ll spank that pretty little ass.”

You gulp, almost exploding with excitement as you watch him in the mirror. He’s smirking, because he knows you’d probably love that. But not right now. He rids himself of his jeans and his boxers, his cock bobbing as he pulls them down. He slides on a condom and then he’s behind you again, kissing his way across your shoulders. You grind your hips back against his and he grips himself with one hand, eyes boring into yours.

“ _Watch_.”

“James!”

In one long, slow movement, James buries himself inside you. An almost feral groan falls from his mouth as he thrusts his hips brutally, not bothering with tenderness because he wants to fuck you just as desperately as you’re begging him to. You’re unable to tear your eyes away, not just because he’s told you to watch but because you _can’t_. You watch the way his muscles flex with every thrust, the way his mouth parts as he growls, the slick shining on his chest. It’s all too much. Sloppy kisses are planted over you skin, punctuating his unsteady rhythm and you clench around him.

“Look at you, princess.” he grunts, hands running over your sides and back up to your breasts. “God, you’re so fuckin’ _beautiful_.”

You’re unrecognisable. Your skin is flushed all over, your lips swollen from where you’ve been biting back your moans and you have a deliciously handsome man’s hands all over you as he fucks you into a frenzy.

“You take my cock so well,” he pants. “This what you wanted, princess? Me fuckin’ you like this?”

James is unforgiving, setting a bruising pace you know you’ll feel tomorrow but you don’t want him to stop. Broken words, that’s all you can manage. You try to tell him you’re almost there.

“Touch yourself, princess,” he says in your ear. “Make yourself come.”

You move a shaky hand from the wall, sliding it between your legs and whimpering as your stroke yourself, tentatively at first and then with more confidence when you see that James is enjoying it just as much as you are. You rock back against him and he gasps, mouth wreaking havoc all over your neck.

“ _Fuck_ , princess, come for me,” he chokes out, jaw clenched with the exertion of his self-control. “ _Fuck_ , I’m gonna- “

James’ murmur turns into a shout, his forehead pressed into your shoulder as he tips over the edge with you. It’s enough to make you cry out, a sharp gasp of his name as you shudder against him. Wave upon wave of pleasure shoots through you and your vision turns blurry, all the tightness unravelling until pure bliss settles over you.

James catches you when you slump forward, brain still fuzzy and skin still tingling as he carries you to the bed. Dutifully, as always, he’s sure to make sure you’re cleaned up before laying down beside you. You giggle as he flops down on to the mattress, hair bouncing as he groans.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, you know that, babygirl?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	11. Onze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James takes you to a gala and buys you a painting. Tony Stark is his least favourite client.
> 
> Smut Warnings: dirty talk, light bondage, light d/s themes, oral sex, semi-public, spanking, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. I think I apologise for getting carried away every time I update this story because it seems that each chapter gets progressively longer. I suppose some things are not worth being concise for and Bucky is one of them. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter. As always, do feel free to leave a comment. I've had some brilliant ones so far, and whether you're sharing ideas for what you'd like to see in the story or pointing out helpful criticism it's always greatly appreciated.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

Peace. Tranquility. Serenity. The lounge chair beneath you is soft, you sink into it like it’s a cloud. Relaxation washes over you, your muscles soothed from a massage that lasted for a glorious two hours. You have a facial booked in after lunch, a manicure and a pedicure too. As always, James spares no expense. He simply swatted your ass and sent you on your way to the _Dior Institut Spa_. You send some pictures to your friends and naturally, they’re all quick to express their jealousy.

It’s needed, a little time to yourself. It feels like since you met James your life has been passing at one hundred miles an hour. You don’t regret it as such, but between him, Sam’s classes, your freelance work, and the job hunt, you don’t remember the last time you stopped to take a breath.

When you moved to Paris, this wasn’t what you expected in the slightest. Honestly, you weren’t expecting anything with _anyone_. You came here to find yourself. And to escape your life back home. What you told James yesterday was the truth, in part. Your parents did want you to become a doctor. They also wanted you to get married and start a family. Neither of which you’re ready for. You’d quickly come to learn that you didn’t want a fairytale romance. You wanted to travel, live abroad, have fun. You wanted to eat too much cheese, drink too much wine, smoke too many cigarettes. Prim and proper and ladylike is not a description of you.

Only, you never imagined you would end up with a _Sugar_ _Daddy_. James Barnes is a mystery. A tall, dark, handsome mystery. He’s a polished figure, a lawyer. Ironic, really, considering his moves in the bedroom are _that_ good you wonder if they should be illegal. It worries you slightly, how attached you are to him. This isn’t a relationship. You shouldn’t like him as much as you do. But, it’s impossible not to. Not when you trust him unconditionally. And certainly not when he’s so charming, intelligent and kind. He excites you, bringing out the devilish streak you’ve hidden for so long.

And yet, at the same time, he grounds you. He makes you yearn for success. You want to be smarter, hardworking and successful yourself because he’s so intelligent. You don’t want to be brainless bimbo who only cares about the number of carats in a diamond. And with all your newfound inspiration, you’ve been working on a new piece of writing. Nerves get the better of you as you think of it, because James is the inspiration behind it. You haven’t told him. You will, just not yet. It seems only fair, he’s never shown you any of the drawings he’s done of you.

A pleasant woman materialises, her voice soft as she murmurs your name. It’s time for your next treatment.

* * *

It’s a dream, your day. You’ve been pampered to within an inch of your life and honestly, you lap up the luxury because it’s a fascinating change from your usual routine. Jarvis, ever the diligent gentleman, is waiting outside the spa for you. He makes polite conversation, inquiring about your spa treatments and if they were to your liking. You sigh happily. They were just perfect.

As is James, apparently. Jarvis tells you he’s at the office and will arrive shortly. In the meantime, a stylist and a hair and make-up artist have been summoned. They stand to attention by the rack of dresses in one of the guest bedrooms, greeting you when you enter. A box of macarons, Pierre Hermé because James insists they’re better than Ladurée, and a pot of tea are brought in. Apparently there is champagne for later, James doesn’t want you drunk.

Jarvis is pleasantly surprised when you ask him to stay. You feel your cheeks flush a little as you tell him that you’d like his opinion on what dress to choose. He probably knows James’ tastes best, and you’d like to wear something that will please him. Or complement him at the very least. Of course, Jarvis quite understands and takes a seat on the little velvet couch, suggesting you have a cup of tea first. You pluck a salted caramel macaron from the box and admit James is right, they’re much better than Ladurée. You offer the box to Jarvis, and he refuses, but you rustle the macarons until he reluctantly takes the Madagascan vanilla.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, _mademoiselle_?”

“Can I ask you a question? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Jarvis smiles, indicating he’s listening and you hesitate.

“Do you like working for James?” you ask delicately.

“Very much so,” nods Jarvis, still smiling. “Mr. Barnes is a good man. I trust he hasn’t given you a reason to think otherwise?”

“No,” you reply at once. “I was just…”

“Curious?” asks Jarvis knowingly and you smile.

“Exactly. Curious,” you agree. “And in the interest of curiosity, I’m just dying to know which of these dresses you think he’ll like best.”

“Now that I can certainly answer.”

* * *

A floor length dress, sleek and black, because apparently that’s James’ favourite. It fits your contours, it’s sexy without being revealing, it’s classy without being buttoned up. The straps hug your upper arms, leaving your shoulders bare. There’s a slit up the right side, offering just a tasteful glimpse of your bare leg and you’re wearing black strappy heels.

Clearly, it has the desired effect because James looks you up and down, his eyes briefly zeroing in on your high heels, all the while licking his lips. You can see the ocean raging in his eyes, the vein ticking in his cheek as he makes no move to do anything besides drink you in. You’re only too happy to return the favour because he looks like he’s stepped straight out of a dirty fantasy. An elegantly sleek black suit, one you’re sure is bespoke because it fits him like a glove. The white shirt underneath is taut against his muscled chest, a silky black tie nestled there and it takes all your self-control not to grab him by it and lead him straight to the bedroom.

James stands there with his hands in his pockets, a powerful but relaxed stance, his head slightly dipped so he’s almost looking up at you through his half-lidded eyes. It’s smouldering, and you’re surprised you don’t evaporate on the spot. He’s sex on legs, and being the handsome, devious man he is, he knows it too. So really, you have no qualms about showing your appreciation for his outfit too. You bat your eyelashes innocently, a coy game you know drives him crazy, letting your gaze drift down from those plush lips to his tie before lingering at the space between his legs.

“Good evening, Mr. Barnes,” you say, lifting your eyes to meet his smirk. “Don’t you clean up well.”

James steps closer, the air crackling between you. He casts a sweeping glance over you once more, keeping himself carefully composed as he smiles wickedly.

“Evenin’ to you too, princess,” he drawls, the low baritone of his voice shooting straight to your core. “You look _stunning_.”

“You like it?” you ask, still the voice of innocence as you smooth a hand down over your dress.

“Fuckin’ beautiful.” he says, pulling his lower lip between his teeth.

It’s when his Brooklyn accent creeps in you realise just how aroused he is, as if he’s too distracted to care about being prim and proper. It delights you, and he blinks, realising he’s been staring longer than he intended.

“I got you something.”

James is holding a velvet box, it’s as wide as his hand and you’re curious as he flicks it open. There’s a dazzling necklace nestled inside, a delicate white gold chain with no less than six pear-shaped diamonds draped like teardrops in the centre. You gasp at how pretty it is, the diamonds sparkling beautifully. It’s extravagant, in the most wonderful way. A subtle show of his wealth and you still can’t quite believe it’s for you.

James lifts it from the case and motions at you to turn around. You feel a quiver race down your spine when his fingers brush your neck, his hands reaching over your shoulders to make sure the diamonds sit neatly under your collarbone. And then he’s pressing a kiss to your nape, just above the clasp of the necklace while his fingers strum a featherlight rhythm on your waist. You don’t want him to stop, but if he doesn’t, you don’t think you’ll be making it out of the apartment.

Sitting in the back of a limousine doesn’t fare much better because you’re all too aware of his presence. His leg rests against yours, a large hand curves possessively over your bare thigh and you can feel yourself growing wet. You sip your champagne for want of a distraction. James’ is looking at you with reserved desperation and you feel goosebumps erupt where his eyes roam. He’s in a particular mood tonight and it all becomes clear when his hand wanders dangerously high, fingers digging into your inner thigh.

“Take off your panties.”

It’s gruff, it turns you on and makes your brain short circuit as you blink at him. Even in the darkness, you can make out that wolfish smirk.

“I said, _take off your panties_.”

You’re not sure what possess you to obey, but you do. Not that you don’t have your own fun. You lift your hips, sliding your panties off with an excruciating slowness and placing the scrap of black lace in James’ open palm. He pockets them with another evil smirk and you wonder how you’re supposed to get through a whole evening when James commands your full attention.

* * *

 _Petit Palais_ is an architectural gem, a museum on the Champs-Élysées so really, you’re given little time before Jarvis is parking the car out the front. James is drawing circles on your thigh, his voice unwavering as he tells you it was built in 1900 for a world exposition. It now houses the Museum of Fine Arts. The main facade reminds you a little of Versailles, the gold gilded gates that you pass through sparkle in the night air. High ceilings with murals greet you, the faint hint of a piano in the distance. White marble gleams bright, creamy stone intricately carved and it’s everything one would expect Paris to be. Beauty, magic and refined elegance that you have only ever written about in your stories.

The Palais is closed off, corridors out of bounds but James promises they all boast incredible art that he’ll show you one day. No wonder he chooses to live in the _8e arrondissement_ _,_ what with a gorgeous art museum on his doorstep. He clasps your hand in his, guiding you towards a well dressed couple that stand by a pair of glass doors. You recognise the man, a tall, muscular blonde called Steve. The very one you met in James’ office. He recognises you too, kissing your cheeks in greeting.

“It’s nice to see you again.” says Steve earnestly.

“And you, Steve.”

“This is my wife, Peggy.”

Red lips, high cheekbones and carefully curled hair. Bold eyes you’re sure see right through you, but when she smiles it’s sincere.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says, kissing your cheeks too. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Surprise, it’s the first discernible expression because you had no idea James actually _talks_ about you to his friends. You assume they know of you the same way your friends know of him. You weren’t expecting much more than that but you recollect yourself in good time.

“Good things I hope.”

“The best,” winks James, and you can only imagine what he means. “You look beautiful, Peg.”

Conversation follows, James’ friends as friendly and approachable as you could have hoped for. They include you as best they can, but you’re a little occupied watching James from the corner of your eyes. He stands tall, exuding confidence and a swagger you’re unfamiliar with. A combination of easiness that comes with the company of his friends and a confidence purposefully displayed to assert his presence. You dwell it on little, because the arrival of new guests steals the attention of Peggy and Steve.

The gala itself bubbles over with magic and you do your best to charm every person James introduces you too. Although, it's not so easy without your underwear. A feat he reminds you off, patting his pocket subtly whenever he catches you squirm.

“This is Y/N, my date for the evening.”

You briefly what they must think of you. With the notable age difference between you and James, as well as the lack of title when he introduces you, it must be clear as daylight what the nature of your relationship is. You’re not bothered, not the way you should be anyway, you’re merely curious if all the rich men and wealthy women regard it as normal. Then, you remember where you are. Paris. True enough, there’s no judgement in the eyes that study you. Merely formality, a little disinterest and the occasional coyness.

Familiar faces pepper the guests, students you’ve crossed paths with. A couple of girls from your writing class. A few boys from the life drawing class where you met James. They’re all a little wide-eyed to see you clutching his arm, diamonds dangling from your neck. Expressions that don’t pass James unnoticed, his eyebrow arches, eyes turning from blue to steely grey. You’re a little taken aback, almost prompted to ask a question you never thought you would but he turns at the last minute, to a tap on his shoulder.

Maria Hill greets James as does Sam Wilson before their attention is directed towards you.

“Y/N,” grins Maria humorously. “I almost didn’t recognise you with your clothes on.”

Sam splutters whilst James looks at Maria with disbelief. You laugh, appreciating her candidness and leaning into her outstretched arms. It’s refreshing to drop your formal act, even for a few minutes.

“It _is_ nice to see you,” clarifies Sam. “Clothed as always.”

Strange, seeing Sam in a context outside the classroom but he’s as witty as ever. A good sense of humour, a relaxed easiness and a friendly demeanour. Maria raises her eyebrows pointedly the second the banter between the two men begins and you deduce it’s a regular occurrence. She eventually pries Sam away, you give James the same treatment. It’s futile trying to converse with Maria over their boisterous jibes.

“You know, I didn’t believe Rogers when he said you were here. Boy, guess I’ll be doubling my donation. He’ll be happy.”

A drawling voice that straddles the fine line between confidence and arrogance. Slicked hair, neatly trimmed goatee, eyes framed by thick lashes and a smile that looks like it would be better completed with a cuban cigar. You don’t need an introduction to know who this man is.

“Mr. Stark,” clips James smoothly, offering his hand. “Nice to see you.”

“Almost didn’t make it,” he grins scandalously, eyes landing on you. “You know what French girls are like.”

A reputation that precedes him, Tony Stark is every bit the billionaire playboy you’ve read about in magazines. A champagne flute rocks dangerously in his fingers and your fingers tighten around James’ arm.

“And who might you be, _chérie_?”

James clears his throat, speaking your name through a tight-lipped smile as Tony takes your hand in his. A kiss is pressed to your knuckles.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Stark.”

“Please, call me Tony.”

Tony Stark is possibly James’ biggest client and one of the biggest donors to the _Académie_. A good friend of Steve Rogers, so you hold back judgement because Steve is a trustworthy man of honour. James has been perfectly cordial all night, but you see slivers of him in business mode now. He stands tall, shoulders squared and feet firmly planted. You drop your hand from his elbow, his arm curling around your waist. You learn it’s to tease you. His fingers draw patterns, pressing into just the right spots every time Tony asks you a question and without fail, an involuntary shiver courses through you. Every time.

Eventually, you’re granted a reprieve. James wants to show you the pieces up for sale tonight. The crowd is thinner here, your whole body tingling at James’ smile. It accentuates his cheekbones, his eyes alight with a sexy dangerousness. He stands behind you, an excuse to press as close to you as he dares. You bite back a gasp, the feel of his half-hard cock prominent against your ass.

James pushes you to your limits, lips brush your ear and fingers curl around your hips when you stop to admire every painting. His palms mould to you perfectly, squeezing briefly before one dips low enough to toy with the slit of your dress. You’ve never been so hyper-aware of his touch, silently begging for him between your legs. It would be all too easy without your panties. You're sure he can tell of your growing desire. You nibble your lip, his voice barely discernible over the blood pounding in your ears. He asks you what you think of each piece, and you somehow stammer out an answer each time.

It’s not until the last piece that you really have an opinion that breaks through the pleasurable torture James is exacting on you. You’re not as well-versed in art as he is, but even you can detect a certain maturity to this particular painting. Carefully honed skill, a canvas swathed in light colours that speak of beauty and charm. A woman in the centre, she commands your attention, her back bared as she slides a shirt off her shoulders. It’s sensual, a show of admiration.

“This is _incredible_ ,” you breathe, and James lightly kisses the spot under your ear. “I can’t believe a student painted this.”

“You like it?”

“It’s amazing,” you nod. “Whoever she is, the artist must think she’s beautiful.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, otherwise she would be painted from the front,” you say, sure that for once you’re speaking sense. “There’s something intimate about painting her from the back. It’s delicate and sensual, a moment that only the artist gets to see her in.”

“D’you like it enough to have it in your apartment?”

“What?”

You whip your head round to glance up at him. He’s grinning, teeth bared and eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I’m buyin’ it for you.” he says simply and you flounder.

“James, it must be _expensive_. And you’ve already made a donation. A _six figure_ donation.”

“I want to buy this for you, princess,” he says firmly. “You wait your pretty ass here so I can go put your name down. I’ll be back with champagne.”

Shock. You’re stunned. It may not be the Mona Lisa but you’ve heard enough whispers to know these paintings are one of a kind and selling for the same price as two month’s rent. It _is_ a beautiful painting and you’re willing to bet James has already mapped out exactly where in your apartment it would look best, you wouldn’t put it past him. You only wish you knew the artist’s name, you’d love to tell them how much you like their work.

“Don’t tell me you’re a painter _and_ a writer.”

Tony Stark looms behind you and your brows furrow.

“How did you know I’m a writer?”

“Your boyfriend didn’t tell me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

You smile softly.

“James isn’t my boyfriend.”

Tony mulls it over, before getting back to the subject at hand.

“Your teacher over there, Sam Wilson, can’t seem to stop singing your praises,” chuckles Tony, with a small hiccup. “Now, normally I’d say he’s a big softie but considering he’s talking to Alexander Pierce- “

“Of Pierce and Co Publishing?” you interject, eyes doubling in size.

“Would you look at that, you really are a writer!”

Tony beams and moves to stand beside you. A hand squeezes your shoulder as he points out Sam.

“See that man he’s talking to? The one with the black frock coat? Nick Fury.”

“Shield Literary.”

“You want an introduction?”

You stare at Tony, his shoulders dancing enticingly. A quick peer over the crowds doesn’t reveal James to you. He’s been gone quite a while and you do think you should wait for him. But… these two men are powerful figures in the writing industry. You floated past them earlier, their names unknown to you and no acknowledgement from James either. Surely he won’t mind if you let Tony introduce you to them. This is your big chance, an opportunity to push your career forward in the right direction.

“Alright,” you nod, smiling nervously. “Yes, please.”

Tony offer his arm and you raise an eyebrow. He shrugs and it flops to his side. He beckons you forward. Your future awaits.

* * *

“You’re paying five thousand euros for _your_ _own_ _painting_?”

Steve stares at Bucky in disbelief. He merely makes a face and pens his name down. It’s a formality really, Steve knows he’ll cough up the cash first thing in the morning. He certainly doesn’t think it’s worth five thousand euros. Technically, it’s not even for sale. It’s a private piece, one that Steve cajoled him into exhibiting to showcase the talent at the _Académie_. The agreement was for the artist to remain anonymous and for the painting to be returned in pristine condition.

Bucky was certainly not expecting you to be so enamoured with his own damn painting. He’s never shown you his work, so he’s safe in the knowledge that you don’t recognise his style. It’s the very first piece he has of you. A recollection of the first time he ever laid eyes on you. How you captured his attention before he even saw all of you. It’s so different to the other drawings he has of you. This one is intimate in particular, a window into his thoughts of you. There is pride to be found in it obviously, and he doesn’t hide how smug he is that it’s _his_ painting you’ve fallen in love with.

Steve’s smirk suggests he’s holding back his true thoughts and right now, Bucky has no desire to deal with his best friend. Turning back to the party, his eyes scan the crowd in search of you. You really do look stunning in your dress and it doesn’t take him long to spot you in a huddle to the right. Your small hand extends, it’s engulfed by a much larger one belonging to Alexander Pierce. He feels a swell of pride, you’re undoubtedly confident and he has every faith you’ll impress the publishing giant. Sure, he wishes he’d had the opportunity to introduce you but he’s not angry.

A ricochet of laughter. Tony Stark places a hand on your lower back, a spot Bucky considers reserved for him and him only. He frowns. You don’t shrug Tony off. You’re engrossed in conversation with Pierce. Flattery, presumably. Tony’s engrossed in you. Steve’s voice rings warningly in his ears but Bucky’s already halfway across the room. He makes it in time to see Pierce slipping you his business card and you promising to send across some of your writing. Pierce shuffles away and Bucky slides an arm around your waist, pulling you out of Tony’s grasp.

“There you are, princess.”

The possessive gesture makes you gasp, it’s quiet but enough to aid his smugness. You look a little bemused, puzzled even but Bucky brushes it aside as he glares at Tony. Tony is amused as ever, eyes awash with confirmation. It makes Bucky feel uneasy.

“Barnes,” booms Tony. “You left your girl all alone.”

“Keeping her company?”

Bucky tries not to snarl, but it’s not a secret how he feels about the prospect.

“Well, Wilson told me she’s an excellent writer so I thought someone should introduce her to the right people. You weren’t here, so I stepped in.”

Bucky doesn’t realise it, but his arm has tightened around you. There’s a growl forming in his chest, the night all but over for him as he feels his skin prickle hot with anger.

“I’m here now, and we’re actually just leaving,” he says coldly. “Your painting’s being delivered tomorrow, princess. Let’s go, I got a few other _things_ I wanna show you.”

As if proving a point, Bucky leans down, presses a kiss to your neck. It’s deliberate, a particularly sensitive spot he knows will drive you crazy and sure enough, a whimper catches in your throat. Tony raises an eyebrow as you mumble an embarrassed goodbye.

It’s silent in the car. What’s meant to be a short drive feels like it extends to a painfully long period of time. He can feel your eyes on him every so often. You glance at him, playing with your nails as you open and close your mouth several times. He think he spots a smile, but you turn your head to look out the window and he can’t be too sure. His anger is ready to bubble over as they reach his apartment. That’s when you finally speak.

“Thank you for the painting,” you say calmly. “I had a nice time tonight.”

Bucky growls and slams your back into the front door. It shuts with a loud _thud_. Your wide eyes look up at him, unsure of the energy that’s crackling in the air. His chest is rising with every laboured breath, his palms flat against the door either side of your head, caging you in against his body. His eyes are ablaze with a hardness that he’s been trying to quash. But all he can picture is Tony Stark with his damn hands on you.

“Yeah?” he thunders. “You have a nice time with _Tony Stark_?”

Amusement fills your eyes. He doesn’t like it.

“Is that what this is about?” you ask, not unkindly. “Are you _jealous_? James- “

“What’d he offer you? Must be hell of a lot, he’s a fuckin’ billionaire.”

Amusement turns to a flash of anger. He likes that even less. You step away from the door, chest pressed to his and your gaze unyielding.

“He could offer me all the money in the world,” you reply in a confident whisper. “There’s something I want more.”

Bucky falters when you trail a succession of kisses along his jaw. He feels his cock twitch in his pants and despite how hard he wills himself not to react, he knows the conversation is over. You smirk at him, moving your mouth down to his neck and Bucky just knows he’s in for it now. It’s strange but arousing, how helpless he feels as you drop to your knees. He has to bite back a moan when you blink up at him innocently, your hands undoing his belt. You hum in approval, palming at the bulge in his boxer briefs and his hands almost slide off the door. You mouth at him through the material, earning a series of filthy curses. There’s another delighted hum, and then you’re tugging the offending material down.

“Is this okay, _sir_?”

Bucky almost comes. Barely past the front door, his pants and underwear at his ankles and a gorgeous woman staring at his cock with excitement. You lick your lips and he swear he’s never been so hard in his life. He nods, not trusting himself to speak and not entirely sure he can manage more than “ _please suck my cock, babygirl_ ” but he refuses to beg. You catch on, of course, reading him just as well as he reads you.

“ _Fuck_!”

Bucky jerks his hips when you wrap a hand around him, stroking up and down his length softly. Your other hand grazes over his thighs, nails scratching lightly enough to make him swear again. And then, you lean forward and take him in your mouth. The head of his cock brushes the back of your throat and Bucky gasps your name. He dares to look down and it’s almost too much. Your lips wrapped around him, eyes glassy when you meet his gaze. You bob your head a few times and he feels your tongue run along the underside. His heart is racing already and he knows this is going to be embarrassingly short but it’s so _exhilarating_. He watches you flick your tongue over the tip of his cock, moaning softly at the taste of his precome and he has to press his palms harder against the door before he keels over. Your mouth is so wet and warm around him, your hands cupping and squeezing his balls.

“James,” you purr, pulling off to lick along the seam of his balls. “I want you to come. Come in my mouth, sir.”

Bucky’s brain switches off, heat flushing all over his body as you suck him with renewed fervour. He’s so close and struggling to hold on, not when you swirl your tongue like that. He tries to warn you, a choked out garbled mess of words and then he snaps, vision blackening as he roars your name and spills down your throat. It’s bliss, unabashed, unashamed bliss and he opens his eyes to see you licking off a stray drop from the corner of your mouth.

The smug pride on your face lasts about ten seconds before you’re hauled to your feet. A squeak tells Bucky his expression is every bit as dark as he hopes. He runs a thumb along your lips, swollen and the red lipstick a mess. It’s smeared all over his cock and the mere thought is arousing. A finger taps at the strap curled around your upper arm.

“Dress. Off. Now.”

Bucky sees the heat creep over your skin, blanketing you in the prettiest flush and the tables have turned again. He’s pleased that you oblige without hesitation, your dress a mere heap on the floor. He tucks himself back into his clothes, taking time to let his eyes roam you. You’re gorgeous, standing there in just heels and the diamond necklace, smudged lipstick and mascara smeared where your eyes streamed from the strain of his cock in your mouth. He wants to _devour_ you.

“I want you on the bed. On your hands and knees.”

* * *

Arousal settles low in the pit of your belly. A pulsing between your legs. You feel exposed like this, on all fours in the centre of James’ bed. The necklace hangs heavy, the back of it slick with the heat that’s engulfed you. You worry about your heels ruining the white sheets, but he hasn’t told you to take them off. You’re sure it’s deliberate on his part, a test to see how far you’re willing to push. An involuntary shudder, the devil on your shoulder telling you to remove them. But before you can, he’s behind you.

James is still fully clothed. The material of his suit rubbing deliciously against your body as he leans over you. Black silk encircles your wrists. His tie. You feel your excitement rising as he ties a neat knot, before yanking you forward and looping the other end through the bed frame. It’s beyond erotic, your wrists bound to the bed, your back arched and your ass in the air. He murmurs in your ear, asking if you’re alright and you eagerly answer a yes.

James has seen you naked. Countless times. But never like _this_. You can hear the satisfaction in his voice, feel it in his touch as he glides a palm down your spine. Your fingers curl into fists, suddenly desperate to grab at him. You’re drunk on James, craving him in your heated dizziness. His fingers trace along the straps of your heels, and then up your calf and thighs.

“You should see yourself, princess,” his voice is gruff. “Look so damn gorgeous all tied up like this, ass in the air.”

You whimper, unable to do much else but squirm as his hands cup your ass, squeezing tightly enough to stir another wave of dampness between your legs. He places a kiss at the base of your spine.

“You’re so perfect like this,” his voice is low, sensual, dripping with sex. “Such a pretty little ass. You gonna let me fuck your ass, princess?”

James chuckles darkly, a moan the only response you’re capable of.

“ ‘Nother time. Right now, I gotta answer your question.”

Your eyes snap open, James a mere shadow on the white sheets.

“Question?”

“You asked me if I was jealous,” he reminds you, and you smile into the pillow. “I’m not jealous. Wanna know why, princess?”

A pause. And then you gasp, feeling his hand whip through the air and _spank_ you. You’re taken by surprise but there’s no use denying how intensely turned on you are. James knows it too, spanking you again before gliding his palms over your skin to soothe the sting. You’re aware of just how wet you are, heart pounding hard in your ears and mind hazy with desire. Every strike is far from gentle, exploding over your skin in a rhythm between hard and soft, a delicious mesh of pain and pleasure.

“I’m not jealous,” James’ velvety baritone breaks through your lust-fuelled fog. “‘Cause right now, you’re in _my_ bed. And you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

James’ bedroom is hot, a harmonious blend of your unabashed moans and sound of his palm on your ass. You’re soaked, your thighs coated with slick and still, you hear yourself beg him for more. It’s dirty and rough and so _James_ as he swears you won’t even remember Tony’s name by the end of the night and as he gives you one particularly hard spank, you don’t doubt him at all. You’re at his complete mercy and by the time he slips a hand between your legs you’re a ruin of desperation with nothing but James’ name on your lips.

“Fuck, princess,” he groans and you mewl, bucking into his hand. “So fuckin’ wet. This all for me?”

A murmur of words. Cries and pleas. You’re beyond aroused, the ability to think long gone. You whine at the loss of his touch, daring to glance back and watch him hastily pull his suit off. Under normal circumstances, you’d enjoy watching him strip off each layer but all you can focus on is how hard he is, cock leaking and begging for attention. The bed dips as he kneels behind you and you grind your ass against his hard length as he reaches for a condom.

“You want me to fuck you now?” he purrs, tip circling your entrance teasingly. “Want me to fuck this tight little pussy?”

“Yes, _God_ _yes_ , sir.”

Unimaginable bliss, you’re needy and whining for James and he’s all too happy to oblige, slamming inside of you so hard your heart skips a beat. His fingers leave bruises where they dig into your hips, every punishing thrust making you gasp and it’s utterly filthy. Your wrists tug at the silk tie, aching to feel James in every way possible.

“That’s right, princess,” his moan is feral, hips unforgiving against yours. “You’re fuckin’ _mine_ to take.”

The sheets bunch up under you, the scent of James engulfs you and you moan carelessly, so close to the edge. He drives into you relentlessly, reckless with each thrust because he knows you need this just as much as he does. You let him ravish you, surrendering yourself to how intoxicating James is and then it’s too much. You’re overwhelmed and you snap, ecstasy consuming you with a scream. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before, your skin tingling all over and you’re so sensitive but James continues to fuck you through your orgasm, only stopping when he comes with a hoarse cry of your name. He buries himself deep, trembling slightly with a final squeeze of your hips.

James collapses on top of you and you topple under his weight with a pained giggle. Your ass is a little sore, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all when he apologises, lying beside you and running a hand over your smarting skin. Your wrists are released. A sigh of relief. Several blinks to clear the dreamlike glaze of your eyes. James is propped up on an elbow, the tie twirling between his dexterous fingers. You’re offered a smirk and then he’s leaning over you, silk blackening your vision.

“I told you princess,” he purrs in your ear. “You’re fuckin’ mine to take. However I want. Whenever I want. And right now, I ain’t done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	12. Douze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You edit your writing for Pierce. James is interrupted several times. You take control.
> 
> Smut Warnings: light d/s themes, oral sex, roleplay, semi-public sex, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. And here we are, more porn sprinkled with odd bits of plot. Which is why it’s weird to call it a filler chapter, but considering the upcoming chapters I have planned that’s the way I see it. 
> 
> As always, I am immensely appreciative of all comments and kudos.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

 A cigarette balanced precariously between your lips, they’re still swollen and smarting with the remembrance of shared passion. Bare feet floating through the apartment, the hem of an oversized shirt swinging with every step. The scent of coffee, tobacco and cologne aptly named “ _Fucking Fabulous_ ”. You know this because Tom Ford personally gifted it to James.

James himself is sprawled across your mattress, the one he keeps offering to buy you a bedframe for but you refuse. You like it on the floor, an odd homage to your starving creative aesthetic. The sheets lie in a rumpled mess, barely preserving his modesty. He’s in no hurry to move, carding his fingers through the great, fluffy cat curled up on his chest. Murph has a tendency to wander over from the Parkers next door and has taken quite a liking to James. There’s a lazy indifference about them as they watch you neatly slot a stack of papers into your bag. _Le Pliage_ , a classic Longchamp bag that even at almost one hundred euros, is the cheapest thing James has ever bought you.

Murph mewls in protest as he’s lifted and dropped on a pillow. James immediately appeases him, scratching under the feline’s chin until he’s purring again before slipping back into his jeans.

“You ever gonna show me your writing?” he asks playfully, pulling his head through his maroon polo shirt.

“That depends,” you reply just as playfully as you tuck your shirt into your jeans. “Are you ever going to show me your art?”

James’ eyes flicker for a second and then he’s grinning, tying the laces on his white sneakers. He points to the canvas hanging above the couch.

“I _bought_ you art.” 

“Yes, but I want to see _your_ art.”

James merely chuckles at your pout, sliding his arms into his leather jacket. His hair’s still mussed, evidence of last night and the early morning. He plucks the cigarette from you, taking a few drags before it dies away and then he’s gone with a few words of encouragement. You grab your own jacket and leave Murph lounging on sheets that linger with James’ scent.

It’s been a couple of days since the gala, an eventful night that’s forever seared into your memory. Predominantly, the main culprit for that is James’ show of jealousy. At least, you think that’s what it was. It’s more likely that’s it simply possessiveness; he is paying for your time, after all. The notion that he might have feelings for you seems far-fetched. Whatever the reason, it lead to a mindblowing night with him, the images still stirring arousal when you think of them. The way he tied you up, how he spanked you…

James is pushed from your mind as you knock on Sam’s office door, his rumbling voice beckoning you inside. An hour later, the stack of papers have been released from your bag and are now etched with red pen, notes are hastily scribbled in your pocket notebook, and your mentor looks very pleased with himself. You let out a sigh, stretching your neck as a broad grin of uncontrollable delight appears on Sam’s face. You sense teasing of some kind, he’s funny that way. Honesty with mirth, never rude or insensitive though. He simply has a way of poking fun at truths most people choose to sweep under the rug.

“Does he know?” he asks lightly.

“Does who know what?” you puzzle, and Sam sniggers.

“Does Barnes know you’ve written about him?”

A hot flush washes over your face, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Sam laughs, but it’s not malicious.

“I’ve- it’s not- is it that obvious?”

“I’ve been reading your work for close to a year now,” points out Sam. “But no, it’s not obvious.” 

You bury your face in your hands, just a little embarrassed. A schoolgirl caught doodling her crush’s initials in her diary. Perhaps an exaggeration, your story isn’t a romance or an ode to James. You’ve simply woven in little nuances, from the physical to the abstract. The creases in the corner of his eyes, his favourite whiskey, the low rumble of his laugh. All details Sam would pick up on, of course. He’s quick to reassure that it takes nothing away from your story, your writing is still very much you. It’s your voice, your message, a little piece of you.

“With those edits, I think it’ll be perfect to send to Pierce.” smiles Sam.

“Really?” you breathe, eyes searching his. “Do you really think it’s good enough?” 

“I think _you’re_ good enough,” confirms Sam, collecting the papers and handing them back to you. “But, before you do send it to Pierce, there’s one more person who should get to read it.”

* * *

A Burberry trench coat, buttoned up and belted. Louboutins, sleek and shiny. Your story burning a hole in your bag. A woman on a mission, strutting through the expansive lobby of Nelson, Murdock, Barnes. A trail of perfume behind you and heads turning as you approach the reception desk. The woman with tight blonde curls remembers you from the last time. You’re not scheduled for an appointment but lunch breaks are hour long affairs in Paris, so you rattle that off as an excuse for your impromptu visit, telling her not to bother notifying James of your arrival.

A light grey, glen plaid suit. Three piece, paired with a white shirt. A black tie tucked into the waistcoat. James’ brows are knotted together as he concentrates on the file in front of him. You slip into his office, the click of your heels jerking his head up and the surprise is evident on his face. You falter for a split-second, filled with concern that perhaps you’ve overstepped a boundary. James’ smile quells that. And the knowledge of what you have on under your coat.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asks, pleasantly surprised.

“I thought you could take a lunch break.” you smile, stopping at his desk.

“Sorry, babygirl, but I don’t have time for food right now.”

“Who said anything about food?”

James is full of apologies, but you merely smirk, swanning around the desk until you’re perched right in front of him. Fingers reach for the buttons on your trench coat, his eyes darkening with each one you undo and then, he’s sucking in a breath. A black corset, satin with lacing up the back that’s just begging for him to untie. It’s strapless, the padded cups pushing your breasts up enticingly and matching panties just peeking out underneath.

James is on his feet, a knee nudging your legs apart so he can stand between them. He absent-mindedly rubs his jaw in contemplation, eyes drinking in the sight of you on his desk in nothing but lingerie, high heels and a coat that barely covers you. An impish smile, a wolfish glint in his eyes. It’s addicting, that jolt of arousal you feel in your core when he looks at you like he could swallow you whole. 

“I’m a busy man,” he murmurs lowly, palms flattened against the desk either side of your thighs. “Clients, cases, meetings.”

“I’m sure you could make an exception just this once, Mr. Barnes. _Sir_.”

You bat your eyelashes at him, innocence in your eyes as you smooth down his tie. You’ve already had him this morning but there’s something so alluring about being here in his office, offering yourself up to the hotshot lawyer that is James Barnes. The fabric of his suit brushes against your thighs and you tremble slightly. He notices, as he always does, but you’re both enjoying your little charade too much to let it end just yet.

“And why would I do that?” he asks, daring you for the persuasion he doesn’t need, not really.

“I wanted to show you something,” you purr, leaning back on your hands so your breasts are pushed forward. James licks his lips. “It’s… personal, _intimate_ if you will. I need your opinion on it. And you’ve always been so good at giving me what I need.”

James leans over you, his scent is intoxicating and you feel drunk on him. His breath cascades down your neck, lips hovering close to your skin and you resist the urge to arch into him. Sin a suit, that’s what he is. But you’d sell your soul to the devil for just one more night. He’s fighting his own battle, you can tell because his hands flex against the glass desk. Almost surprisingly, he caves in a little, fingers brushing against the satin of your corset. His touch burns through the fabric, a wave of dampness in your panties.

“What do you need, babygirl?”

A thunder of footsteps, loud voices and you have barely enough time to wrap your coat around yourself. The door crashes open and James groans in frustration as two men come barrelling in, one complaining of hunger and the other stressing the importance of wrapping up a case. You surreptitiously slide off the desk and button your coat back up. 

“Matt, we’re in _France_ ,” laments a man with shaggy blonde hair. “Do you know how much good food there is here? Cheese, for starters. Barnes, tell him how amazing the cheese is.”

He stops in his tracks at the sight of you, throwing out an arm to catch the man called Matt. James purses his lips. You smile politely, even though it’s far too obvious what’s just transpired in the room. 

“I’m sorry,” apologises the blonde man with a hint of a grin. “I didn’t realise you had company. I’m Foggy, you must be the lovely lady we’ve heard so much about.”

Foggy bounds forward with a hand outstretched but you surprise him by greeting him the French way, a kiss on either cheek.

“Matt Murdock,” introduces the other man, shifting his cane to his left hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

James’ business partners. They immediately warm to you, excited to meet you after so long and it makes you giggle. You look at James questioningly but he just shrugs helplessly, unable to string so much as three words together when Foggy is doing enough talking for everyone.

“I was just about to drag these two workaholics to lunch,” explains Foggy. “Why don’t you join us?”

A look is exchanged between you and James. You tighten your hold on your trench coat. He looks at Foggy with narrowed eyes.

* * *

Epicure is a three star michelin restaurant situated on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Reservation only, but James takes care of that. Culinary muscle, country chic decor, marble floors and immaculate service. Conscious that you’re scantily clad with nothing but a trench coat and a white tablecloth to shield you, you sit as well-poised as you can. You’re seated at a table by the large windows, the hotel’s interior garden just on the other side. Matt and Foggy take the seats opposite, hushed formality as James slides a hand under the table. You bite back a gasp when you feel it curl around your thigh, stroking your skin softly. Your body’s on fire, the spark from your unfinished business now white hot flames.

James orders for you; _macaronis_ _farcis_ , macaroni stuffed with black truffle and Parmesan cheese for your entrée; and then the Menton lemon dessert, frosted with Limoncello, served with preserved pear. Both of which are personal recommendations from the chef himself. 

James’ hand remains on your thigh as you all enjoy your first sip of wine, your hand trembling slightly as he teases higher. He smirks into his white wine, as Matt smiles in your general direction. 

“Bucky never told us what you do, Miss Y/L/N.”

His question is polite but friendly, and you correct him, asking him to call you by your first name. You tell him you’re an aspiring writer just as James’ fingers brush over your panties. You jerk, almost gasping aloud but James is nonchalant, unperturbed as if he isn’t stroking over the damp satin.

“Yes!” says Foggy. “You’re in Sam Wilson’s class! And you were in Maria Hill’s art class too, right?”

“Actually, I was just a model for her class. Not a student.” 

Foggy chuckles, a playful jibe thrown in James’ direction who only raises a salacious eyebrow. He likes art, he says, fingers rolling over the satin that covers your clit. The raging desire to buck your hips into his hand threatens you.

“So you’re smart _and_ beautiful,” says Foggy. “Why are you seeing Barnes, again?” 

“Come on, man,” chuckles James, making you squirm in your seat. “I thought we were partners.”

“All the more reason,” says Matt with an amused grin. “I mean, I know I’m blind but she’s seen what you look like, right?” 

James turns to you, a lopsided smirk for your burning cheeks. The entrées are placed down on the table. 

“You like what you see, right, princess?”

A thick finger slides under your panties, gliding through your wetness and you clench your fingers around your wine glass so tight it might shatter. It’s so quiet around you, music soft and conversations not a decibel higher than a whisper. Your jaw is clenched, desperately holding back a moan. 

“ _Yes,_ ” you choke out. “Yes, I like it.”

The smirk on James’ face is devious, it’s tainted with the promise of what he’ll reward you with when you get back to his office. You’re on edge, head a lust-fuelled mess as he withdraws his hand and you all dive into your plates. Every mouthful tastes like cardboard, at least for you anyway. Everyone else seems to be enjoying their meal. It’s hot beneath your coat, but you daren’t show it. Arousal continues to blossom inside you, nerves pulsing beneath your skin and you can feel yourself throbbing between your thighs when James settles his leg against yours. You almost jump out of your chair when he leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Having a good time?”

You shoot him a glare and he chuckles darkly, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. Conversation is struck up once more as you wait for dessert. Hands no longer occupied by cutlery, James sees it as the perfect opportunity to resume his teasing. Except, it’s not so much teasing this time. Foggy is telling a story about the first case the three of them worked on and you try to follow along but James sinks a finger into your heat, pumping it in and out at an agonising pace. You’re burning with desire, fingers wrapped around James’ wrist as you’re torn between wanting him to stop and needing him to continue.

A quiet whine forms in your throat when James pulls away, signalling the arrival of dessert. There’s a hungry look in his eyes, and it’s not for the chocolate concoction on his plate. A natural divide puts Matt and Foggy in front of you as you walk back after lunch and James’ hand slides down to cup your ass, squeezing harshly, eliciting a squeal from you. The air in the elevator is charged with sexual energy, James pressed right up against you and you’re overwhelmed with your want for him. But, you’re forced to wait, Foggy needs a signature first.

You find yourself alone in James’ office, fingers itching to reach beneath your coat and give yourself the release you’re aching for. But you don’t. As badly as you need it, you want James to be the one who makes you come undone. So you perch on the leather couch, the top two buttons of your coat undone and you summon a sultry smile just for him. Footsteps, and your heart’s thumping. The door opens and you bite your lip, stomach dropping when a curvaceous redhead sashays in. Her emerald green eyes shoot daggers at you. 

“Who the hell are you?” she asks icily, just as James comes storming in. 

The heat in his eyes disappears instantaneously as he glances between you and the redhead, face mildly alarmed.

“Natasha? The hell are you doing here?” 

“You weren’t returning my calls,” simpers the redhead, Natasha. “So I thought I’d surprise you.”

“Well, congratulations, I’m surprised,” says James through a tight-lipped smile. “You can leave now.”

“We need to talk, Bucky.” 

Natasha’s green eyes are stern, a steely hardness to them that suggests she’s an immovable force and James stares her down before accepting his fate. He relents, turning to you with a smile that seems forced. 

“Could you give us a minute, please? I’ll have Jarvis bring the car round and I’ll be right out.”

The age difference between you and James has never been noticeable until now. You feel like a child being ordered around by adults. Natasha has a smug grin on her pointed face as you do up your coat and slip out the office without so much as a look in James’ direction. Harsh reality, it’s an icy wave that washes away any heated desire and leaves you pressing your ear to the door, straining to hear the conversation that filters through.

“She’s a little young for you, isn’t she?” 

“It’s none of your business, Natasha.”

“I’m not judging you. If you needed a year of screwing twenty-something girls to get it out of your system, then that’s fine by me.” 

James barks in laughter, it’s cold. Natasha’s undeterred.

“It’s time for you to come home.”

“You’re shittin’ me, right? You came all this way to take me back to New York?”

“It’s been a _year_.”

“I’m not coming back, Natasha. I thought I made it pretty clear when I left.” 

“You also told me to keep the engagement ring.”

Blood gushes in your ears, your heart dropping into your stomach as acid churns uncomfortably.

“The hell am I gonna do with it?”

“Bucky, we had _everything_ planned. I called the venue, and the caterers, they’re still willing- “

“Natasha, I’m not tryna be an asshole but I’m _not_ _marrying_ _you_ ,” James’ voice rises, it’s firm and insistent. “I’m sorry if you think I played you around, but it’s not gonna happen.”

“Your parents think “

“Dammit, Natasha! I don’t give a shit what they think! The white picket fence, kids, I don’t want all that!”

“So, what?” reasons Natasha, her own anger flaring. “You’re just going to stay here in Paris? Fuck girls half your age in your office? Who is she anyway?”

“She’s none of your _goddamn_ _business_ , Natasha. And yes, I’m staying here. You’re not changing my mind, Natasha. Go home, go back to New York and forget about me, alright?” 

“Bucky- “

“No, I mean it. Dammit, Natasha. I’m sorry I broke your heart, really, I’m sorry. But, you deserve to be with someone who wants all the things you do. So please, just let it go. Tell my parents I said hi.”

* * *

Deathly silence. It’s almost painful, suffocating as you stare out the car window. James wants to go back to your apartment and you don’t disagree. If anything, it quells the dull ache in your heart. He’s quiet, no doubt mulling over the same conversation you are. There’s no reason for you to feel threatened by Natasha. Regardless of James’ feelings about her, or lack thereof, it’s not a conversation you should have been privy to in the first place. There’s a forlorn look in his eyes, one that a flash of your lingerie won’t fix.

The corset is tossed aside in exchange for your black satin robe. James pays you little attention as he sits down on the couch, sighing loudly, the heel of his hands rubbing his eyes. There’s a bottle of tequila on the kitchen shelf, you press a glass of it into James’ hand and he scrunches his face.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, taking a healthy sip. “I shouldn’t be bringing my personal life into this.”

His hand gestures between you and you laugh, sipping at your own glass. You don’t blame him. Personal lives have a way of creeping in, particularly to places they shouldn’t. He’s only human and you can’t fault him for that. You give no indication that you were shamelessly eavesdropping earlier, offering to either hear him out or distract him, whichever he chooses. You’re sure he’ll opt for a distraction, keen to keep personal lives at bay, but in a surprising turn of events, he’s spilling out secrets of his former life.

Natasha Romanoff was his fiancée up until a year ago. The daughter of Russian diplomats, wealthy and with status. James’ parents introduced them five years ago, convinced she was a suitable match for their son. After three years, he proposed to her with a stunning diamond ring and naturally she accepted, her eyes brimming with tears. It was when the wedding planning begun that something felt off. James didn’t want to get married, he wasn’t sure he was ready to think about becoming a father. The truth was, that feeling had always been there but he had continuously quashed it, wanting to please his parents. But when Natasha and children became a possible reality, he realised he couldn’t do it. It broke his heart to hurt her, and his parents, but he could no longer sacrifice his happiness.

“And that’s how I ended up in Paris,” he concludes with a wry smile. “Kinda threw me off when she just turned up today.” 

“It’s okay to not be the person everyone else wants you to be.” you say quietly, squeezing his arm.

“Think I’m still working out who I am.” he laughs dryly.

“You mean you might not be this handsome, rich man who’s an absolute dream in the bedroom?” you gasp, clapping a hand to your mouth and he throws his head back in a laugh.

“You thought I was kidding when I said you corrupted me,” he grins. “I wasn’t always this guy. You wouldn’t have looked at me twice in college. Or high school.”

“What? Why not?”

“I had a stick up my ass, for one,” he snorts, accepting more tequila. “I was a good boy, top of the class, always in the library. Sure I went to a couple parties here and there, had a few girlfriends, but nothing crazy.”

“And high school?”

“Christ, I was this nerdy little kid with chubby cheeks. No, it’s not cute at all,” he admonishes when you coo at him. “I had this huge crush on the popular girl. The only time she ever looked at me was when I was tutoring her.” 

James sniggers at his own admission, before flashing you his customary charming smile. He bets you were the complete opposite. A troublemaker, smart but mischievous. You caught the attention of all the boys, and the girls too. He’s not far from the truth. As you coyly tell him, good girls are just bad girls who don’t get caught. A gleam of his blue eyes as he continues, adding that you were probably the prettiest girl in school. A sip too many of tequila has you confessing you still have the uniform. James perks up at that, eyes dancing with a sudden playfulness that’s reminiscent of earlier. You refuse. It’s too small, you only wore it to Elektra’s costume party last halloween but he’s persistent, pouting at you with his big, blue eyes and resistance is futile.

James sits on the couch, straight backed and pink lips parted ever so slightly. There’s an all too familiar tornado in his eyes, the blue irises vibrant and swirling with a fiery spark of arousal. He’s still wearing his suit; jacket, tie and all. An idea, one you could only conjure with the aid of tequila but you ignore any hesitation, favouring confidence.

A simple plaid skirt. It hit your knees once upon a time but now it sits halfway up your thighs. A white shirt with the school crest on the left. A black tie with red stripes, neatly knotted. You step out in front of James shyly, a sudden thrill when he goes slack-jawed. It’s unplanned, completely improvised but the way his eyes roam you, savouring every feature, tells you to keep going. 

“Fucking hell, princess.” he groans, eyes almost black as you step closer still.

James is just as bashful, evidently as unsure as you are but equally wanting to see what happens all the same. A noticeable tent in his pants has you giggling coquettishly.

“You like it?”

“ _Yes_. Jesus, is it not obvious?”

“Better than the popular girl?” you tease and he actually _blushes_. “Is this what you were like in front of all the pretty, popular girls? All timid and shy?” 

James blinks rapidly, his whole world upended as you perch beside him and cross your legs. Your skirt hikes higher, his eyes darting to the exposed skin of your thighs and his cheeks rapidly turn from pink to red. It’s sweet but sexy all at once, this usually powerful man who loves asserting his dominance reduced to a blushing schoolboy. It’s not a situation you find yourself in often, and you plan to take full advantage of it. 

“What’s the matter?” you pout, stroking his jaw. “I thought you had a crush on me, Bucky?” 

James’ eyes swell to the size of dinner plates and you do your best not to cackle. You can feel your own arousal dampening your panties, cocking your head to one side as he stares at you, dumbfounded. You search for any hesitation in his eyes, any hint of dislike but finding none, you continue to stroke his cheek, your other hand resting on his thigh.

“Did you think I didn’t know?” you tease. “Did you think I didn’t notice you? All those times I bent over in this short skirt.”

James gulps, raw sex fizzling between you but it’s different to before. Heated nonetheless. You like being the one calling the shots this time. He’s ensnared in your little web, by choice or not, you’re going to devour him all the same.

“Answer me, _Bucky_.” 

“Yes,” he blurts. “I mean, no. I didn’t think you noticed me at all.”

“I noticed,” you smirk at his quivering voice. “I notice the way your pretty blue eyes darken whenever you look at me. I notice the way you lick those gorgeous pink lips when you think about kissing me. Can I kiss you now, Bucky?” 

James nods frantically, his head eagerly bobbing up and down as you settle closer. His hands twitch and you giggle, lifting them to your waist and telling him he can touch you. You haven’t even kissed him and he’s breathless, puffing short breaths that tickle your lips and it makes you giggle again. You give him little warning, leaning in and brushing your lips against his. It’s beautiful, the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and the quiet moan that leaves him. He tastes like heaven, musky and distinctly James. His mouth chases yours when you pull away, eyes snapping open to reveal a dreamy expression. 

“ _Please_.” he whispers.

Your heart skips a beat at his quiet plea, it’s shy and his cheeks flush furiously. You happily oblige, kissing him again with renewed passion. Your tongue licks the seam of his lips and he moans, parting them and moaning louder when your tongue dances with his. There’s a pulsing between your legs but you don’t give in yet, you’ve only just begun having your wicked way with James. You glide your hands over his broad shoulders, the expanse of his chest and back up to his hair, combing through the soft brown locks. His hands squeeze your waist, tentatively dropping down to your hips.

“Bucky,” you murmur against his lips and he moans. “You taste so sweet.”

“So do you.” he smiles back, thumbs rubbing circles through your shirt. 

James giggles. The unexpected sound is so uncharacteric but musical, and you look at him with raised eyebrows. He promptly turns pink.

“I’m just nervous,” he admits, and there’s a flicker of James there, the real James and not the one you’re playing with. “This is… new.”

You slide a finger under his chin and tilt his face up, capturing his lips in a kiss that evaporates any self-consciousness that lingers. You waste no time tasting him again, swirling your tongue with his and he relaxes under your touch, melting delightfully and shuffling along the couch in an attempt to be closer to you.

“Relax, Bucky,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let me do this for you. You do want this, don’t you?”

“Fucking _yes._ ”

“Then sit back,” you giggle at his sudden fervour. “Enjoy the ride.”

James gasps audibly when you straddle him, hands sliding his jacket off. His waistcoat is next, and you hear him kick off his shoes and socks. His chest rises with every struggled breath, hands still gripping your hips tightly, as if he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go. You grab his tie and yank him forward, a delicious growl falling from his lips when you flick your tongue against his ear. The kisses you trail along his neck serve as a distraction, your hands casting his tie aside before deftly unbuttoning his shirt.

James’ skin is scorching, a red flush covering his neck and most of his torso. His muscles clench when you drag your fingers down his chest, his hips bucking up against yours. You nip at a sensitive spot on his neck and he gasps your name, fingers digging into your hips punishingly. You move your mouth back up, tugging his earlobe between your teeth.

“You’re so hard, aren’t you, Bucky? All because of me?”

Your question is met with a low grunt of agreement and you grind down on his hardness, both of you moaning in tandem. 

“I know you’ve been fantasising about me sucking your cock. Do you want me to, Bucky? Do you want me to suck your cock?’

“Please, god _yes,_ _please_.”

James is already wrecked, eyes glassy and hands mindlessly clawing at you as you rid him of his pants. You momentarily consider dragging it out, but he’s a whiny mess, painfully hard and precome seeping through his underwear so you take pity. He’s beautiful like this, splayed out on the couch, his cock hard, the tip red and weeping over his stomach. You kneel between his legs and his hands slide into your hair, desperate to feel some part of you. A string of curses are your reward for licking up and down his length. He throbs in your mouth as you suck at the head of his cock, drawing him in deeper. You bob your head a few times, sucking softly and he whines when you pull off. Your tongue darts out, licking along the seam of his balls and he cries out. His stomach contracts, the muscles pulled tight and he curses again when he feels the wet warmth of your mouth engulf him. You can tell when he’s close so you suck harder, tongue swirling over his tip as his hands tighten in your hair warningly. A breathy moan of your name, and he spills down your throat. You keep your mouth on him, wringing every last drop until he’s slumped against the couch.

James cracks open an eye when the couch dips beside him, tasting himself on your tongue when he kisses you eagerly. Awash with satisfied bliss, he’s a pretty sight. A dusting of pink on his cheeks, as his eyes seek permission. You nod with a giggle as he carefully undresses you. 

It’s almost an art, the way he peels the layers of clothing from you. Your tie is the first to go, gently unknotted and tossed to the coffee table. A giddy smile from James as he reaches for the buttons on your shirt. There’s a sweetness in the way he slides it down your arms, unabashed desire and appreciation for your naked body in equal measure. You can feel how fast his heart is racing, and there’s a loud groan when he realises you aren’t wearing a bra. His eyes dart over your bare breasts, your nipples pebble in the cold air and it gives him a sense of urgency. A meek tap on your hip and you stand, letting him pull down your skirt. Your panties are thoroughly ruined, you can practically smell your own arousal so James doesn’t stand on ceremony, ridding you of them with his mouth ajar.

”Fuck,” he curses gruffly, wonder laced in his tone. “You’re really fuckin’ beautiful.”

His sweet nothings heighten your arousal, your skin singing under his roaming hands and then he’s looking up at you, shyly peeking through his lashes as he asks if can use his mouth on you, make you come the way he did. Hips dangle precariously close to the edge of couch, James kneeling on the floor and his mouth inches from your core. You’re soaked, turned on more than you thought possible as he laves kisses over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Hot, open mouthed kisses, and you fist a hand in his hair to guide him to where you’re begging for him.

He needs little guidance, but for the sake of your little act he’s obedient to your commands. He licks the length of your wet folds, making you shudder. So he does it again, this time dragging his tongue over your clit and you’re bucking your hips into his face. He grins happily, a hum of satisfaction and then he’s nipping at your thigh before flicking his tongue over your bundle of nerves. He alternates between soft sucks and hard licks, driving you deliciously close to the edge when he plunges his tongue inside you. His hot mouth seals around your clit and you drag his hand from your hip to your core. He understands immediately, moaning when he pushes a finger into you. You gasp and arch off the couch, asking for more and you roll your hips to meet every thrust of his fingers. 

“Bucky!”

His name is a mindless mantra, one you chant as he pushes you off the edge and you tumble into the most exquisite ecstasy. James kisses his way up your body, relishing in the little tremors that course through you. A goofy smile, mouth and chin damp but it doesn’t stop you from kissing him senselessly. You can feel his half-hard cock against your stomach and you’re flooded with arousal again.

“That was amazing, Bucky.” 

“You’re real pretty when you come.” He replies meekly. 

“I want you to make me come again. I want you to fuck me and make me come all over your cock.”

James’ blue eyes are blown wide with lust as he retrieves a condom from his wallet. You pluck it from him, a hand on his chest forces him to sit on the couch. Your hand hovers over his cock and he’s treated to a cheeky smirk, before you roll the condom down his length with your mouth. 

“Fuck! Did you just? Holy shit.”

It makes you giggle, pumping him a few times and he hisses. He’s kissing you greedily, it’s messy and sloppy as you straddle him, his tip just teasing your entrance.

”Do you want this, Bucky?” One final taunt because you can’t resist. “I know you’ve been wanting to fuck me but I need to hear you say it.”

”Yes, fuck I want you so bad. _Please_.”

It’s all you need, sinking down his cock and mewling as you stretch around him. James’ mouth falls open, jaw clenched with the restraint of holding back. You’re addicted to the way he feels in you, his velvety weight hard and thick as you rock your hips. The air’s hot, your skin sticky against his but it’s nowhere near enough. James is a drug you’re hooked on, and you let him consume you. 

“You feel so good, Bucky.” You purr, mouth on his ear. 

“So do you,” he pants shakily. “So tight, wet. Jesus, _fuck_.”

The couch burns your knees but you’re careless for anything that’s not pleasure. The air around you is thick with sex, flooded with your lewd moans and James’ growls. Every rub of his cock sends you closer to your release and you ride him harder, bringing his hands to your breasts. He pinches a nipple, drawing the other into his mouth and rolling it between his teeth. Your game’s over now, the both of you desperate in your bid to find release. You tug harshly at his hair, driving him closer still because you’re right there. And then his hand slips between you, fingers flicking at your clit and you lose it, screaming his name as your orgasm rolls through you in wave after wave of sheer pleasure. The sight of you coming undone for him triggers James’ orgasm and he buries his face in your neck, gasping hoarsely as bliss overwhelms him.

Messy hair, shaky breaths, weak giggles. James carries you to the mattress, you whimpering when he slides out of you. A gap between your bodies, the safe distance you maintain always after an initial cuddle. No words are needed. The smiles you exchange speak volumes. It’s the middle of the afternoon and you’re lying naked with James in broad daylight. He breaks the silence.

”I’m going to Monaco next week for business,” he tells you. “I want you to come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	13. Treize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James takes you to Monaco. You talk business. 
> 
> Smut Warnings: anal sex, dirty talk, female masturbation, light d/s themes, oral sex, rimming, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. Pack your bags and grab your passports, we're going to Monaco. 
> 
> One of these days, I will stop apologising for chapters that get progressively longer with each update. Today is not that day. I hope you enjoy sinning with me.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

A sea of powder blue. You’re floating amongst puffs of white. It’s beautiful, peaceful even. The whole world spread out before you. Beams of bright sunshine. A scene you’ve been staring at for the past forty five minutes, but with only another forty five to go, you may as well make the most of it. Relaxing back in your seat, you finish off your coffee. Perhaps it’s because you’re in business class, but you’re positive it tastes better than the muddy water they serve in economy.

James is in the seat beside you, absorbed in reading something on his StarkPad. It’s roughly nine in the morning, but he’s a vision of business casual. Navy brogues and dark, slim-fitted pants. A dark green jersey and a khaki jacket. His silver Rolex. There’s a pair of sunglasses on the table beside his empty cup. You glance at the frames. Hugo Boss.

Suave as ever. A stylish display of wealth. A perfect candidate for the Monaco crowd. You hope you are too. An oversized white t-shirt, the long sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Shorts with a frayed hem, khaki also, so you complement James perfectly. The air stewardesses have noticed too, all four of them visibly disappointed when he leans across to rest a hand on your thigh. An involuntary shiver, concealed with a certain smugness.

“Does your work always have you jetting off to fancy locations?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“Not as much as I’d like,” chuckles James. “This time’s an exception.”

“How so?”

The question slips out before you can prevent it. It’s not as if an official rule exists. Yet, you know the legal world is cloaked in confidentiality. Your smile is apologetic, but James answers all the same.

“I’m trying to close a new client,” he says, holding the StarkPad out. “Thor Odinson.”

A handsome man with perfectly messy blonde hair. Pretty blue eyes and a roguish smile. There’s something vaguely familiar, his name rings a bell.

“Mjolnir Construction,” elaborates James. “They’re responsible for sixty percent of sports arenas, racetracks, restorations to listed buildings.”

“And you’re here to charm him into a partnership.”

“Exactly.” smiles James, fingers squeezing around your thigh briefly.

“And not that I’m complaining, but why am I here?”

It’s not rudeness, merely curiosity. You certainly didn’t want to pass up on a trip to Monaco, but it’s still technically a _business_ trip.

“Can’t expect me to come all the way to Monaco and just work without any play, can you?” he smirks, winking like something out of a dirty fantasy. “You’ll have to entertain yourself when I’m working. You can explore the town, the casinos if that’s your thing.”

“Lounge by the pool in those bikinis I bought with your credit card,” you sigh with a smirk of your own. “Thank you by the way, you have _wonderful_ taste.”

James bites his lip, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. His jaw twitches but you play innocent, reaching for your bag.

“Speaking of entertaining oneself, I have something for you.”

James raises an inquisitive eyebrow at the stapled sheets you present him with. The short piece you sent to Alexander Pierce along with some other samples of your writing. You never did get around to showing it to James before you sent it. Too many… _distractions_. You insist he’s under no obligation to share his artwork in return and he chuckles at that. Another squeeze of your thigh, he appreciates that you value his judgement.

“I just want your honest opinion,” you say earnestly. “You don’t have to read it right now, either. Whenever you have time.”

“This week,” he promises. “We’ll be sitting by the pool, you distracting me in one of those bikinis I’m yet to see…”

He trails off with a suggestive lick of his lips and you giggle, excusing yourself to go to the bathroom. Your hips sway, the feel of his eyes following. Giving yourself a once-over in the mirror, you slide open the door only to be pushed back by a pair of strong hands. The door promptly slides shut again and you find yourself pressed up against James. He stands taller than you, blue eyes gradually darkening as he shifts closer still.

Tension rises, temperature soaring in the tiny space and you stumble when the plane shakes. James’ arms wrap around you immediately. You gasp at his husky growl, and then he’s picking you up and setting you on the sink, crashing his lips down on yours. Any coherent reasoning that you’re in an airplane bathroom disappears, your legs parting to allow James to stand between them. His kiss is hungry, like he has to have you _right_ _now_ , the rest of the world be damned. You let him.

His hands roam your thighs before sliding under your shirt. You moan, James shushing you immediately with a warning to be quiet. A frantic nod because you’re unsure how you’re meant to stay quiet when he’s touching you like _that_. How you wish you’d worn a dress, or a skirt at the very least. Your hands fly to his belt, hurriedly undoing it. You reach his zipper and just as you do, there’s a loud knock that startles you both.

A rude awakening. You snatch your hand back. Face aflame with mortification, you try to compose yourself and resist the urge to punch James. The most disarmingly cheeky grin, one that has zero regrets, bares down at you as he somewhat lazily does his belt back up. You hop down from the sink, crashing straight into the wall of muscle that is his chest. He squeezes your ass as there’s a second knock and you really do punch him this time.

Chortling with amusement, James slides open the door and smiles dazzlingly at the air stewardess. She narrows her eyes at you, before plastering a simpering smile on her face.

“ _Monsieur_ , I’m sorry but only one person is permitted in the lavatories at a time.”

“Of course,” smiles James, blithely unfazed. “My darling Y/N thought she’d lost an earring, one of her favourites.”

The air stewardess is not convinced, not in the slightest. James continues to smile as he takes your hand to lead you past her. She stands her ground for a minute.

“Please be careful not to… _lose_ anything again.”

James sighs as he resumes his seat, stretching his legs out as if in invitation. The other passengers are all too aware of what they’ve just witnessed. A couple of them are visibly disgusted whilst a few of the women look at you enviously. You duck your head. James winks. The air stewardess doesn’t let you out of her sight for the remainder of the flight.

* * *

Hôtel de Paris, Monte Carlo. As if James would settle for anything less than the over indulgent decadence of one of the most famous hotels in the world. It’s simply stunning, the Belle Epoque facade that shines in the sun. Marbled colonnades, crystal chandeliers. Luxury unlike you have ever experienced. An attempt to look nonchalant as you pass rows of gleaming Ferraris, Lamborghinis and McLarens. Your hand rests in the crook of James’ elbow as he leads you inside, a porter already having collected your luggage from the limousine. The limousine that the _hotel_ sent.

You’re greeted immediately. A pleasant woman called Friday who introduces herself as your housekeeper in an accent that’s tilted. Irish, you think. You must look confused by her greeting, because you’re at a hotel so why would you need a housekeeper? She rather politely explains that as guests of the Diamond Suite, she is one of the many amenities available to make your stay more comfortable.

“The Diamond Suite?” you ask James, as the elevator doors close.

“The Diamond Suite.” he nods, unable to hold back a grin.

Heaven. This must be what it looks like. For a moment, you’re sure you’ve stopped breathing. Perhaps you really have died and floated high. Perfectly polished wooden floors and ivory coloured walls set with framed modern art. A round dining table that seats four under a dazzling crystal light fixture. Two taupe velvet couches face each other, the coffee table between them laden with fresh fruit and champagne on ice. Just beyond them, floor to ceiling glass that leads out to a private terrace that overlooks the sparkling Mediterranean sea.

There’s not one, but _two_ bedrooms, both with their own respective bathrooms. James insists you pick which one you like best, telling Friday not to bother preparing the spare. Effectively, they’re an exact match, one on either end of the suite. But you pick the one on the left. It’s beautiful, with a king size bed and glass doors that lead out to the terrace here too. A desk with a mirror above it, and you don’t miss James’ coy smirk. A taupe armchair and footstool by the glass doors, as well as a drinks cupboard.

The bathroom is made entirely of marble. Two sinks beside one another, mirrors fixed into the wall. There’s an enormous freestanding tub in the middle, as well as a large walk-in shower. Once again, long glass windows offer a glimpse of your private terrace and the ocean that looks mere inches away. Yes, this must be _exactly_ what heaven is like.

James’ gaze is trained on you. You float through the suite, preening as Friday begins the task of unpacking your belongings. A smile that you simply cannot wipe off your face, it peeks through the hand you have clasped over your mouth. James grins widely, pleased with how overjoyed you are.

You slip out on to the terrace, hands gripping the rail as you breathe in the salty air. Strong arms wind around your waist as lips find their way to your neck. The sun beats down, skin warming instantly. Lightheaded, full of happiness, you melt into James’ touch.

“Is this a dream?” you breathe. “Are we really here?”

“For the whole week, princess.”

James kisses the spot under your ear. An apology, mumbled into your skin. He has to go get ready for his lunch meeting. You’ll meet Thor tonight at dinner, you have a reservation for seven at Le Grill. The top floor restaurant. Apparently they serve an excellent soufflé.  

James suggests that as you only have a few hours, you stick to the hotel. It has plenty to be explored. You should relax, unwind from the stress of the flight. You snort at that, the very statement affirms how wealthy he is if he’s telling you to get a massage after a measly ninety minute flight. There’s a keycard for you, you need only charge everything back to the room. He’ll take care of the bill when you check out on the weekend. He says it so casually, as if he’s not already paying four thousand euros _a_ _night_ just for the suite alone.

This is how the story goes, your arrangement essentially requires him to spend money. But this is _obscene_. It’s absurd how badly you want to drag him to the bedroom right now. Instead, you settle for a breathtaking kiss that hints at how you’ll thank James later.

* * *

“Wanda, I think I’m going to cry.”

“What? _Why_?”

“Everything here is just so _pretty_!”

Bucky chuckles quietly as you wail to your best friend over FaceTime. You’re out on the terrace again. It’s quickly sealed itself the position of your favourite spot. The camera is flipped to provide Wanda with evidence as to why. An empty espresso cup. A few cigarette butts in the ashtray. A lit one perched in your fingers. The ends of your satin robe flutter. It’s six in the evening, and you’ve done your make-up. Friday has steam-ironed your respective outfits for the evening and left them hanging in the bedroom before making herself scarce.

“You’re a princess,” he hears Wanda state. “I am here in my tiny apartment and you are a _princess_.”

You laugh, the pretty sound music in the air. You voice how extraordinary it is in Monte Carlo. Morals rear, you feel a pang of guilt for living so lavishly. It makes him smile. You’re kind, good-hearted. He’s been looming in the background but chooses to step forward as Wanda barks in laughter. She tells you, in not so eloquent terms, to screw your morals and just go _have_ _fun_.

“I agree.”

You whip around, a smile on your face. Wanda’s eyes widen and she’s tugging self-consciously at her blanket. She greets him nonetheless, but Bucky’s a little confused by her suddenly erratic behaviour. It all becomes apparent when a tall, naked blonde man comes barrelling into the space over her shoulder.

“Wanda, I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty of arranging your bath bombs better.” he says, before freezing on the spot.

Bucky purses his lips. He knows that voice extremely well. And the man that it belongs to.

“Jarvis.”

“Mr. Barnes.”

Wanda hurriedly spouts a goodbye and hangs up. A snort escapes in your attempt to hold back your amusement. Bucky wears a mildly bemused expression.

“Well, that’s more of my assistant than I was hoping to see all week.”

That’s all that’s said on the matter, he’s keen to burn the image from his memory. Thankfully, you decide it’s a good moment to slip into your dress. One he remembers purchasing especially for this trip. It’s by Victoria Beckham. A sleeveless white number, v-neck, it ends in a pencil skirt. The diamond necklace he bought you for the gala goes perfectly with it, as does a pair of high heeled sandals.

Bucky is sure you’re the perfect complement to him. He’s dressed smart but casual in black pants, a white shirt and charcoal grey blazer. He grins when you turn to present him with your back. Fewer things serve as foreplay than zipping a woman into her dress. He’s sure to brush his fingers along your spine, relishing the way you shiver at his touch.

Tonight is important to Bucky. He needs to set a good impression, the very best. As well as lunch went, it was with the board of Thor’s company. Dinner is one on one time. You smooth down his blazer and assure him you’ll be on your best behaviour.

Bucky expects you to be awestruck when you walk into the restaurant. Or to have some sort of reaction at the very least. If anything, he’s the one who’s visibly gawking because you carry yourself with grace and poise. Completely neutral with nothing but a charming smile. Le Grill is a rooftop restaurant and as it’s warm enough, they’ve opened the roof. You’ll be dining under the starry sky. His hand is planted on your lower back, guiding you but you need little of it, more at ease with the scenario than he anticipated.

“James! It’s good to see you again!”

“Please, call me Bucky.” he smiles, his outstretched hand engulfed by a meaty paw. “This is Y/N, she’s accompanying me this week.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Odinson.”

Thor is immediately taken, smiling widely as he kisses your cheeks. It’s only a look, one to gauge to your character. He’s engaged after all. But Bucky dislikes it all the same.

“You have a fine taste in women.” comments Thor, winking at Bucky.

“And I have a fine taste in men.” you say teasingly.

Thor guffaws, drawing out a chair for you and you slide into it neatly. Bucky is impressed. Not that you’ve ever struck him as uncultured or unmannered. You’ve always been a delight. Tonight is a very different kind of evening, though. He won’t deny he had some hesitations, but you seem to be handling the situation just fine.

Conversation flows, menus propped open. Wine is brought from the cellar, Thor’s choosing. Bucky readily accepts, hoping to butter the man up. You ask Thor for his recommendations which doesn’t sit well, not entirely anyway. Bucky knows you’re doing the same thing as him, kissing ass. But he does miss out on ordering for you as he normally does. Blue lobster with avocado; potato gnocchi with forest mushrooms; chocolate soufflé.

Thor inquires after you. Your education, your aspirations, how you met Bucky. That last question makes him choke on his wine. Thor’s not obtuse and Bucky has made no efforts to conceal the casual nature of your relationship. You giggle, your hand coming to rest on his arm as you tell Thor that you and Bucky share a passion for the Creative Arts.

“No, no,” says Thor airily, with a wave of his hand. “Bucky, _you_ tell me. It’s always interesting hearing the man’s perspective.”

“Uh, well,” he laughs shortly, putting his glass down. “She’s right. We met through our mutual interest in the Arts. We both attend the same _Académie_. I saw her and I just knew I had to have her.”

There’s a grin on your face, your eyes shining bright. He’s never told you about the first he laid eyes on you. The painting in your apartment is still an enigma. Thor shows appreciation, dubbing him a true man for knowing what he wants the second he sees it. Bucky laughs good-naturedly at that, aware it’s just as much a metaphor for their business negotiation. You laugh too, proclaiming Thor to possess a good sense of humour.

“There’s nothing lovelier than a woman’s smile,” grins Thor. “Wouldn’t you agree, Bucky?”

Bucky raises his glass in answer. Thor is a rascal. A man whose very presence evokes power. Flirting is second nature, even if he is besotted with his fiancée. A telltale colouring of your cheeks, but you find his hand under the table. Your delicate fingers wrap around his wrist. The sky seems all the more starry to Bucky.

Chatter dances in the air. Bucky’s voice sparse as you babble away with Thor. Brazen banter, the kind Thor is easily able to snake flirtations into. Bucky’s knife and fork scrape deafeningly against his plate. You shift closer to Bucky, your perfume enveloping him but still, you prattle on. Your favourite spot in Paris (the steps of the Sacré-Cœur); Thor’s best friend (a man from London named Heimdall)... none of it serves any purpose. Dammit, Bucky is here to discuss _business_.

“I do wish Jane was here,” comments Thor. “I’m sure she would very much enjoy your company.”

“I hope I’ll get to meet her sometime soon,” you reply. “If she’s caught your eye, she must be a wonderful woman.”

“Oh, indeed. Opinionated, very intelligent, a real force to be reckoned with.”

“Especially when you ruffle her feathers,” you tease, and Thor roars with laughter. “I imagine she’s every bit delightful as her fiancé.”

Bucky clears his throat. He _detests_ that coy undertone in your voice. A rigidity in the way he glances at you.

“Y/N, I think you’re carrying the conversation away,” he says, in as much of a teasing manner as he can manage. “Thor and I have plenty of things to discuss.”

“I’m sorry, James,” you reply, an equally stern look in your eyes. “Thor makes such good conversation and you know I tend to be a bit of a chatterbox.”

A sort of grimace, a fleeting smile meant to assert Bucky’s dominance. He turns to Thor with a pleasant expression, asking if he’d had a chance to look over the paperwork that had been sent ahead. He’s incredulous when your knee nudges his under the table. You cite business to be boring, that you’d much rather hear more about Thor’s upbringing in Northern Europe and Bucky is positively _fuming_.

What the _hell_ are you playing at? Bucky made it quite plain what the significance of tonight was earlier. In fact, you had assured him of your _best_ _behaviour_. You’re here to hang off his arm, look pretty, highlight his attributes. You display an audacity to not just defy him, but _embarrass_ him. Exaggeratedly giggling at Thor’s jokes, shutting down all manner of talking shop, even encouraging Thor’s advances by leaning forward and drawing attention to your cleavage by running your fingers along the diamond necklace that _Bucky_ bought you.

A hot wave of anger threatens to bubble over. Bucky stews in it. Even the stars have lost their sparkle. At last, the dessert plates are cleared. Thor drains the final few sips of his scotch.

“I enjoyed this evening far more than I expected,” booms Thor, leaning back in his chair. “Truly, your company is _charmante_.”

“Likewise,” you smile appreciatively. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“You’ve found yourself a real woman here, Bucky,” says the burly blonde. “You would do well to keep her away from men like me.”

“Looks like you’re giving the counsel now.” he manages through a tight-lipped smile.

“And I have more of it,” grins Thor. “I insist you take her out tomorrow. Show her the true beauty of Monaco.”

Bucky declines, politely so. He has a meeting scheduled with Thor, a daylong affair where he’s meant to see what plans Mjolnir Construction have instore for the next F1 race. Thor won’t hear of it. He relents somewhat, agreeing to meet in the morning but no more. He even insists they borrow his yacht and you audibly gasp at that. Your hands find Bucky, your lips pressing a kiss to his cheek as you bat your eyelashes. What choice does he have but to give in to Thor?

* * *

It’s unbearable. A coldness settles between you and James despite the warm summer night that blankets Monaco. Silence, the uncomfortable kind. He says little, pays you attention even less. It’s unsure why, but you don’t press it. The only words that pass are ones that tell you to go to the room. He doesn’t follow, so you take the elevator by yourself. Five minutes. Ten minutes. And still no appearance. You decide to take a bath.

A few bottles line the rim of the enormous tub. French lavender oil, honey bath cream, a small tub of sea salts. You sprinkle those liberally and throw in the bubble bath potion for good measure. Sinking into the warm water, the tension in your muscles begins to fade. You try to forget James’ sullen expression. Your mind is racing in circles trying to figure out why he’s acting so strangely in the first place. It’s not as if you’ve done anything _wrong_. He wanted to make a good impression on Thor, the very best, and you’ve done a good job so far.

The slam of a door. Footsteps thunder. A loud huff.

“What the _hell_ was that?”

You dare to open an eye, peering at James who glowers above you. His hands are on his hips and there’s murder in his eyes. You suspect he’s angry and although it’s probably not the reaction he’s looking for, you can’t help but be just a _tiny_ bit aroused.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play games with me,” he snarls, face reddening. “I told you how important tonight was and every time I brought up business you shut me down! The hell were you playin’ at?”

Fingers grip the side of the tub and you stand to your full height, looking up into James’ eyes with defiance. His face flickers, but he doesn’t give anything else away. Not that you care, you’re not trying to seduce him. You refuse to be spoken to like a petulant child.

“You tryna get in Thor’s pants?” he continues, raging like a bull. “That what it is? I stopped you going after Tony Stark so you got your sights set somewhere else?”

James is the first to realise the gravity of his words. He gulps when he sees you visibly seething.

“If you ever speak to me like that again I will walk out of here without looking back,” you say in a voice that’s dangerously quiet. “Not to Thor or Tony for the record. Although, I’m not sure you deserve that reassurance right now.”

James clenches his jaw, evidently not trusting himself with words.

“You said you needed to charm Thor,” you continue, anger still bubbling hot. “ _Charm_ is right. Thor didn’t invite you all the way out here to discuss business for a whole week. He already knows you’re the best at what you do. He invited you here to see what kind of _man_ you are.”

“I- “

“Thor built up his business from nothing. It’s his baby, his everything. He knows you’ll take care of it as a _lawyer_. He needs to know that you’ll take care of it as _good_ _man_.”

James softens visibly and you look at him wryly.

“Although, he should rethink that considering the way you’ve just behaved.” you mutter, making sure it’s audible enough for James to hear.

“What makes you so sure?” he asks, tone considerably quieter than before.

“Because I know men like Thor,” you answer, still unyielding. “I’ve seen my father pull the same trick a dozen times.”

James blinks and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Men are so oblivious.

“I knew who Thor was the minute you showed me his picture,” you explain. “Not because I want to _get into his pants_. Mjolnir Construction takes out business loans from Credit Suisse. A bank that my father’s eldest brother sits on the executive board for.”

James’ eyes widen comically but you pay him no mind. You’re delivering a monologue, his shock can wait.

“And his younger brother runs operations for Merrill Lynch in the Middle East. I’ve had a front row seat to business my whole life. I know _exactly_ what makes men like Thor tick.”

“I- “

“I don’t care what our _arrangement_ is, James. I’m not stupid. Don’t you dare take me for a _salope_.”

James is stunned into silence. His mouth opens and closes several times, giving him the distinct impression of a goldfish. At least he has the courtesy to look ashamed, face red and eyes downcast. You’ve maintained a certain level of calm throughout your little tirade but it doesn’t take away from how appalled you are at his accusations. Seconds tick by, and then he raises his eyes back to yours.

“I’m sorry,” he says and it’s nothing short of sincere. “I was outta line. I’m sorry. This deal’s really important to me and- it doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” you agree irritably.

“For what it’s worth,” he mumbles, the red flush deepening. “I think you’re the smartest woman I know. And you’re not a _salope_. I really am sorry. Can I make it up to you?”

You raise an eyebrow and he quickly reassures that it’s not a pathetic attempt at seduction. He glances down at the bubbles formed around your legs.

“Can I join you? Please?” he requests meekly.

“Maybe,” you reply haughtily, although you’re weakening. “If you order some champagne. And chocolate covered strawberries.”

As you very well know by now, bubbles (the champagne kind) and bubbles (the bath kind) are a match made in heaven. Not that you’re forgiving James _that_ easily. When he slides into the bath you refuse to let him sit behind you. He begrudgingly settles for sitting opposite you, toes brushing your legs. He pours you the first glass of champagne, holds up a strawberry for you to bite into and then draws your feet into his lap, rubbing the soles with his thumbs. Apologies are strewn in with questions about your family and he dubs you a little tycoon, which makes you roll your eyes. Not without an affectionate smile though. You can sense he’s a little tentative about Thor still. Even though he has absolutely no reason to be.

“I promise you that by the end of his party on Friday night, Thor will have signed with you.”

James smiles, not wanting to dig his grave any deeper but you’re firm in your belief. James already has Thor’s business. If he didn’t, you wouldn’t be having the most luxurious bath of your life in Monaco of all places. Thor has the soul of a good old-fashioned businessman, he likes to sign deals in person. If he didn’t want James’ firm to represent him, a phone call would have made it clear.

“You really are the smartest woman I know, babygirl.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Barnes.”

“Yeah? And right now? Will it get me over there so I can kiss you?”

James looks positively adorable and yet, somehow ruggedly attractive all at the same time. The ends of his hair have curled in the humidity of the bath and a few strands dangle down his forehead. His smile is cute but playful and he’s sitting there with arms draped either side of the tub. You tilt your head, as if contemplating his question. He pouts. You giggle and crawl over, perching in his lap. He smiles wider when you brush his hair from his face.

“Your hair looks sexy pushed back.”

James doesn’t understand the reference. He’s a little frustrated when you laugh, reaching for the bar of soap and dunking it in the water.

“Your age is showing, old man.” you tease, gently rubbing his chest.

James shrugs, humming softly when you run your fingers through the small thatch of hair on his chest. You straddle him properly, and he takes the soap from you. A lather forms and he rubs your shoulders, the sensation so gentle and soothing you close your eyes and relax. You feel him shift beneath you. A ghost of a kiss on the corner of your mouth. Your cheek. Along your jawline. Your eyes snap open as his lips finally meet yours and you melt into a kiss that’s as much of an apology as it is a seduction.

And then James draws back, his hands gliding down your arms as his lips trail the column of your neck. He stops to suck at your collarbone, leaving you a whimpering mess and then you gasp when he captures a nipple in his mouth, sucking softly as he pulls you closer. He’s hard, cock trapped between your bodies as he wreaks sensual havoc on your breasts. You writhe, tugging at his hair.

“ _James_.” you plead, and his lips find yours once more.

“I know, babygirl,” he whispers in between pecks. “I know. Let me- “

“No,” you shake your head, grinding down on his thigh. “We don’t have to.”

James flinches and you quickly shake your head again, smoothing down his hair.

“I’m on the pill,” you clarify, eyes shyly focused on where your hands sit on his chest. “And I got tested after the first time we- “

Your sentence is drowned out in a moan as James kisses you fervently. He eagerly nods his consent, promising he’s clean too and suddenly the heat in the room is too much for you both. His hands hold you by the hips, sinking you down on his length. You savour the feel, walls pulsing around him. For once, he’s as loud as you are, if not more. Gasping and spewing half-finished swear words. James has always felt good, but this is something else entirely. You feel him, _all_ of him.

“Jesus, _fuck_ ,” he groans, nuzzling his face in your neck. “You feel so- _fuck_. You do that and I won’t last long, babygirl.”

You giggle and roll your hips in the same way, walls fluttering around his cock when he groans in that deliciously filthy way again. It’s quick, the way you ride him. Urgent and needy, but he is too. His skin is warm against yours, muscles clenching under your fingers and you’re veering on the precipice of ecstasy. Gasps, curses, moans, they all fill the air.

“C’mon, babygirl, I need you to come for me,” he urges, nipping at your neck. “Let me feel it, let me feel you come around my cock.”

You bounce faster, his hands guiding you and you give into the orgasm that crashes over you, clutching at James as he spills into you with a gasp of your name. You tremble in his arms, uncaring of how loud you moan at his warmth flooding you. You’re shattered, breathless in the best way possible. Even as you come down from your high, your desire never wanes. The feel of James in you leaves you _insatiable_. He’s the first to raise his head, groaning happily into a kiss that tells you he’s in the mood for more. Not without apologising again, though.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers mournfully, pecking your lips. “I was a real asshole.”

“Yes, you were.” you agree cheerfully and he chuckles.

“This mean you forgive me?” he asks hopefully.

You study James. He’s so handsome, pretty in a rugged way. Pink lips jutted in a pout. Stubble that’s not quite thick enough to mask the cleft in his chin. Clearly cut cheekbones you can’t resist tracing. Piercing eyes that look more blue than grey, right now. You fumble behind you, holding up the bottle of French lavender oil so he can see.

“How about a massage?” you propose, tone only _slightly_ suggestive. “And then I’ll take it into consideration.”

James grins, because your words are remarkably reminiscent of the initial offer he made you. He’s about to reply with sass of his own, but seems to think better of it, squeezing your ass playfully instead.

"Whatever you want, princess.”

* * *

The floor length curtains dance subtly in the light breeze. It filters through the open terrace doors. You shiver slightly, but James’ mouth finds yours and you gasp eagerly into the kiss. You’re splayed out on the bed, back arching when he peppers kisses down your neck. You can feel heat blossoming when he pulls back, warming the oil between his palms but a few drops escape, spilling on to your stomach and you gasp. And then his hands are on your skin, warm and slightly rough. It’s delightful, heavenly and so sensual it borders on sinful.

James smooths the oil into your skin, hands gliding up over your stomach to cup your breasts. You mewl as he rubs in slow circles, his bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth. Décolletage, shoulders, arms. A low moan in his throat because he’s enjoying this just as much as you are. You can feel how wet you are, you’re sure he knows it too. And still, he doesn’t dare stray. Stomach, hips, legs. You can see the lust in his eyes as he grips your ankles.

James chuckles when you squeak, finding yourself on your front. His hardness brushes your ass as he leans over you, lifting your arms above your head and you moan into the pillow. He’s deliberate to let his cock glide down your lower back and ass as he settles behind you. Slow rubs of his thumbs down your back. A few feathery kisses scatter across your shoulders. Every passing moment spikes your impatience. The sheets must be _soaked_ under you.

You giggle when James’ hands squeeze your ass. There’s a confidence to his touch, one that knows how to elicit pleasure from the simplest of touches. You notice he lingers, fingers so dangerously close to your wet heat and you’re sure he’s driving you _crazy_. A shiver races down your spine when his lips brush your ear.

“Do you trust me?” he whispers, and there’s a sense of sexy intrigue.

“Yes.” your whisper is barely audible, anticipation fluttering.

He kisses your ear, promises of pleasure that match his hungry touch. His lips trail down your spine and you’re shuddering beneath him, face buried in the pillow. And then his hands are on your ass again. Your anticipation teeters at a staggering height as he leaves kisses over the back of your thighs. A gasp of his name, and it shatters. You buck up off the bed at the feel of James’ tongue licking a stripe between your parted legs. He only chuckles, warm breath tickling your hole. And then he licks again, making you gasp out his name.

You’re on edge. A combination of arousal and tentativeness. James is determined to make it just as erotic for you and it makes all the difference. He seems to revel in leaving you breathless with flicks of his tongue. Your purrs couple with his hums of approval. You can picture it clearly, picture James with his head bobbing between your cheeks and your skin tingles all over. It shouldn’t feel this _good_ , should it? But it _does_ , mindless babble interwoven with whimpers tumbling from your lips. His stubble tickles and you’re keening. A circle of his tongue around your rim. His left hand slips beneath, a finger at your entrance. The dual sensation has you reeling, you’re growing closer and closer.

You’re pleading James, you’re not sure for what but he seems to understand. His fingers curl as he pumps them in and out of your heat, his tongue flicking faster. The room’s hot, too hot. And so is James, his touch, his mouth, his everything. You’re trembling, as desperate for release as you are for the moment to not end so soon. You grasp at the sheets and then, the feel of his tongue _in_ you has you gasp James’ name as you come.

A lust-fuelled haze, it’s like a pleasant cloud. You’re wrapped in it, only to discover it’s actually James with his arms around you as he languidly kisses up your back. He nips at your ear, before nuzzling his face into your neck.

“We can stop,” he offers, and you know he means it. “We don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t want to.”

“I want to.”

The words escape you before you realise it. Not that it takes away from how utterly frenzied you sound. You want James, in every way possible. He’s intoxicating, a drug you can’t get enough of. You know what unadulterated pleasure feels like with him and you’ve not had your fill. Not even _close_. Even so, he asks again and there’s a glimmer of heightened desire in his eyes that emboldens you to lift your head and tell him that you want him to, no, you _need_ him to.

You eye him quizzically when he returns from the bathroom. A condom and a small bottle. His cheeks are dusted with a faint blush, but he’s at that point where embarrassment dissipates in favour of longing desire. A scrape of scruff along your shoulder, soft lips too. The taste of mint when he kisses you, swallowing your gasp when he pushes a slick finger in.

“So good for me, princess,” he croons, nipping at your shoulder playfully. “Can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”

James is all too aware of the impact his filthy words have on you. You melt, a wanton puddle that will take whatever he’s willing to give. He’s sweet, dirty. Only when he’s coaxed more moans and heated begs from you does he reach for the condom. Propped up, elbows either side of you, his cock nudges your hole. A face darkened with devilish desire. He bites his lip, teasing you with just the tip, suddenly in the mood to play.

“You want this?” his voice is a murmur, gruff and laced with restrain. “Want me to fuck your ass?”

“Yes,” you beg without an ounce of self-consciousness. “Yes, James, _please_ , _sir_.”

You know which buttons to push. _That_ one earns you a growl and he’s looking down at you hungrily. A contrast to the slow, careful way he presses in. A tandem of moans fly through the air. It’s musky and heavy, full of dark desires and throbbing need. James fills you in a way you’ve never felt before. And even so, he’s tender. Kisses and words of praise, an inch at a time, letting you accustom to how _good_ he feels.

“ _Fuck_ , princess,” he swears, pressing his face into your shoulder. “Fuck, your ass feels so good.”

Despite your protests, James thrusts are shallow, slow, smooth. His chest blossoms with red, creeping up his neck. His arms tremble around you, eyes fluttering. The sheets bunch up around you, no longer soft and silky but warm and sticky. You’re drowning in his scent, the lavender oil barely noticeable amidst the soft leather and salty musk. It’s undeniable, the wave of arousal that has you dripping simply because he looks utterly _ruined_. And then his eyes snap open, pupils blown wide with lust as he mutters about “ _wanna make this good for you too, princess_.”

A successions of gasps and mewls, a few grunts from James. He’s on his back, hands gripping you tightly by the waist. Your ass hovers over his cock. You’re scrabbling at his chest, nails scratching and he hisses but somehow, he’s even _more_ turned on as he lowers you down his length. It’s unbearably slow and you rake your nails down his chest. You feel so full, _brimming_. A pulsing between your legs as James quickens his thrusts. You’re held in place by strong hands, head thrown back as a sheen of perspiration and the remnants of lavender oil mingle on your skin.

“Touch yourself, princess.”

James’ command is gasped out, populated with shaky groans. His hair is a wild mess, lips swollen and coloured a shade of bitten-red. You can feel the clench of muscles beneath you as you bring your hands up to your breasts. He’s every bit as dominant as he is always, rough around the edges but there’s an unspoken passion this time. Another blissed out groan from James graces your ears.

“Just like that,” he urges. “Fuck, you look beautiful, princess. Playin’ with those pretty tits while I fuck your ass.”

You moan ashamedly loud. You’re drenched with want, heady with white hot desire licking between your legs as you trail a hand down to your clit. The rest of the world fades away fast, only James remains. You’re unable to think straight, chasing your pleasure and it’s deliciously close. As is James, his thrusts increasingly sloppy as his head slumps against the pillows. You work yourself faster, one hand balanced on his chest. James is breathless, he’s been holding back for too long and dangerously close to snapping. He’s impossibly hard, cock deep in your ass and you can’t fight it any longer, begging him to come with you.

James shouts his release, hips jerking up into yours and it’s all you need to push you over the edge. You cry out his name as your whole body shakes, trembling with the cascade of pleasure. Your eyes roll back in your head, mouth open in a silent scream as the bliss seems to be never-ending. James’s voice is gravelly, faint to your ears. All you can hear is the hammering of your heart, the blood pumping in your ears.

You’re overwhelmed. The night a seemingly foreign memory. Between feeling James’ bare cock in you and him fucking your ass, you’re left lightheaded, brought back only by the sight of him wobbling back from the bathroom with a warm washcloth. He’s just as ravaged as you are, struggling to remain upright as his eyelids flutter with drowsiness. He fights it, cleaning you tenderly and then pulling you into his arms. Sweet nothings, musical praise and the odd curse word. Another foreign feeling, your cuddles never last this long.

You blink in the soft light. The sound of crashing waves. A blue sea. James’ heart beats fast, chest rising as he tries to steady his breathing. Your skin is sticky against his. White bedsheets stained with massage oil and what is unmistakably his handprint. You’re mortified at the prospect of having to explain that to Friday in the morning. James chuckles, little hearty ones as he suggests you both shower and sleep in the spare bedroom tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	14. Quatorze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You explore Monaco. James likes being out in public.
> 
> Smut Warnings: dirty talk, oral sex, public sex, rough sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. Another day in Monaco awaits! There is very little plot to this, it is honestly just pure porn. But, when it comes to Bucky what more could you need?
> 
> Thank you all so much for the response so far, I'm so pleased you're enjoying the story.
> 
>  
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

It’s common fact that you will inevitably be awake first and this morning is no different. Lying amidst strewn sheets and haphazardly thrown cushions, contentment sweeps over Bucky in a pleasant wave. Fragments of last night float through his mind. Your skin, soft and trembling under his touch. Your moans, the way they set his nerves alight. Your body, laid out bare for him and all but begging for more. The inevitable, barely conscious and he wants you already.

Shielding his face from the sunshine that streams in, Bucky dares to open his eyes. Hands scrabble at the bedsheets, finding them bare. Warm, rumpled, the lingering scent of you. Slumber slowly lifting, it takes a minute. You lie on your front, feet propped up on the pillow beside his head. A packet of cigarettes, the silver lighter he bought you, both cast by his hand. Your laptop is open, you’re typing away, naked backside covered only by what he instantly recognises as _his_ shirt.

Bucky’s not sure why, but you in his shirt has his blood boiling with lust. He can’t help himself. His hand wraps around your ankle, gliding up your leg until he reaches your ass. A groan as he remembers how tight you felt last night. He’s already hard, cock twitching at your gasp when he gently squeezes your cheek. You’re giggling, face still buried in your laptop as he props himself over you, nipping at your ear.

“ _Bon matin_ ,” you giggle, his lips trailing down your neck. “Nice of you to join the land of the living.”

“You should’ve woken me, babygirl.”

“Hm, you seemed quite worn out after last night, old man.”

A growl, part predatory and part feigned annoyance. A giggle, it turns into a shuddering moan as Bucky presses his hard cock against your ass. A snap of the laptop lid, it’s thrown aside and you squeak, finding yourself on your back. Bucky looks down at you greedily. His shirt looks infinitely better on you than it does on him. A possessiveness, coupled with a smug sense of pride. He notes your short breaths, the subtle parting of your lips, the desire whirling in your eyes. A dark chuckle. He rubs the head of his cock against your clit, delighted at how aroused you are already.

“Who you callin’ old man?”

That gasp when he slides into you, it sets Bucky on fire. God, he can’t get enough of the way you feel around his cock. Hot, silky, wet, it’s heaven and hell all at the same time because he can think of little else except burying himself deep in you. Control is a thing of the past. He’s hard, fast, rough. On his knees, his hands gripping you by the hips as he slams into you. Your breath rushes out, back arching off the bed as you grasp at the sheets desperately.

The shirt is deftly unbuttoned, Bucky’s eyes fixed on your breasts as he allows animalistic desire to consume him. Your whimpers, they urge him on. He’s driving into you relentlessly, addicted to the way you begin to unravel. Shirt falling apart for him to drink in the way you’re spread out. His name a mindless chant on your lips. There’s no finesse to his desire, not this time but it matters little because you’re just as dizzy with lust as he is.

“That’s it, princess,” he growls, feeling close already. “Let me hear you. Want everyone in the whole damn hotel to know who’s makin’ you feel this good.”

Every thrust pushes you further down the bed. One hand curls around his thigh, nails digging in to stop yourself from falling. His hands slip under your ass, tilting your hips up. A scream of his name and Bucky no longer recognises the man he’s become. You’re _his_. His to take, his to fuck, and right now, he couldn’t care less that you’re half-hanging off the bed. He needs you to forfeit any shred of control you have, give yourself to him.

Voice an octave he’s never heard before, he watches with wild eyes as you come undone. Heat settles over his skin as he fucks you through your orgasm. Sinful, the way your thighs tremble, the way you moan shakily, the way your walls clench around his length. One particularly punishing thrust and he comes for you too, cock swelling and spilling into you hot and hard.

Lightheaded, a blissful haze. Your wet heat still tight around his length. He’s floating, euphoria washing over him, hips stuttering until he’s spent. Unwilling to move, Bucky lets your satisfied hums bring him down from his high. A haste tap at his knee.

“James?”

You’re perilously close to toppling off the bed. He pulls you back, your whimper tangling with his grunt because he’s still in you. Bucky’s never seen such a beautiful sight. His shirt is creased, serving absolutely no purpose in covering you. A dreamy like state etched all over your face, breasts rising as you steady your breath. Hot skin flushed. Thighs shaking.

“Still think I’m an old man?” he teases.

“Yes.” you tease back.

“Careful, princess,” he threatens in a husky voice. “Any more cheek and I’ll spank you.”

* * *

An ache of the best kind. A perpetual reminder of last night. And this morning. You only hope it’s not too obvious as you walk around the Old Town. Le Rocher, it’s a labyrinth of charming little alleyways that date from the Middle Ages. No map, not even Google. You let instinct lead you down the windy lanes. A stop every now and again to whip out your camera. Little details are captured; red bricks, ornate architecture, flashes of beaming smiles, bread jutting out of a basket. Thrust skyward, you’re grateful you opted for flat sandals. It’s a warm morning, sunshine raining down on your skin. A light sundress, your bikini underneath because you’re meeting James at the harbour after lunch.

A better mood today on both your parts. Not that you didn’t appreciate the possessive roughness in which James took you with. You love coaxing it out of him, watching his eyes blacken deviously. Feeling your skin begin to burn under erotic images, you stop at a little boutique. A few souvenirs for your friends amidst all the selfies you’re religiously sending across. You even pick out a pencil for James, a red one that says “ _I love Monaco_ ”. It’s fairly cheap, nowhere near the calibre of his artist’s instruments, but you know it will earn a chuckle or two.

It catches you by surprise, the pang in your heart. You wish James was here with you. Strolling through the streets, hand in hand. You bet he’s a fountain of knowledge about the history of Monaco Ville. When you reach the peak of Le Rocher, you allow yourself to be captured by the breathtaking view. The ocean stretching for miles, glimmering under the Mediterranean sun. Then you promptly turn and take a selfie, sending it to James.

_JB: Nice view._

_You: It’s beautiful!_

_JB: Wasn’t talking about the sea ;)_

A giggle, very schoolgirl like but that’s often how you feel when James flirts so brazenly. It’s precarious, dire even. Your feelings bordering on more than just sexual attraction. And just as always, you tiptoe around the subject. Your excuse this time is that you’re only two days into Monaco. What good would a confession do as of right now?

Emotions brushed aside for another time, you situate yourself in a cosy little cafe. Sandwiches, toasted and with a side of salad. A glass of wine (James’ influence when you send him a snap of your lunch) but no more. You don’t want to be bloated and tipsy on a yacht. The notebook you’ve stashed in your bag makes an appearance and you scribble down more words for your story. You’ll type them up later. But now, sitting in the summer sun with a cigarette tucked between your lips, you’re taken by inspiration. Still no word from Alexander Pierce, but it’s only been a few days so you aren’t worried yet. Even if you did pull out your laptop at six in the morning to check your emails.

Time soon runs away from you and before you know it, you’re treading across the wooden pier in the harbour. James stands out from the Monaco socialites. White canvas shoes, taupe pants with the cuffs rolled up, a short sleeved white shirt with a couple of buttons left undone. You feel hot, and it has little to do with the climate.

Thor’s yacht is magnificent, James moving about it with ease. You let him take your hand and lead you, his high-flying status evident as he’s the one steering the boat out of the harbour. Your camera emerges; photographs of the sea, the town behind you, even a few of James. He’s game, flashing you a charming smile. Details of the dimple in his chin, the sharp cut of his jaw, the hint of his cheekbones. Air whipping around you in a welcome breeze, he beckons you over. A typically masculine move, one that you use to stroke his ego because he’s so _charming._  Chest to back, hands over yours, he guides you in sailing out into the open sea. Only when he’s sure you’re in safe waters does he disappear below deck to change. You stow your sundress in your bag, digging out the bottle of sunblock.

You’re massaging the lotion over your arms when James reappears in a pair of shorts and you’re lost in a lusty daydream all over again. The expanse of his chest bared, veins running through his arms, fine golden hairs making a brief wave in the bright light. A grin just for you and even though his eyes are shielded by black glasses, you can tell they’re twinkling mischievously. A little charade you’re only too happy to play along with.

James drinks you in the very same way you did him. Bottom lip clenched between his teeth. You wear a black bikini, classic and simple. He’s probably wondering why you made such a big deal of it. It becomes clear when you turn to present him with your back. He swears under his breath. The briefs are cut high, Brazilian style, your ass bared to him.

“What are you staring at, James?” you tease, not above wiggling just enough to make him swear again.

“You.” comes his bold reply.

“Well, make yourself useful and give me a hand.”

The heat thickens in the air when he’s right behind you. It radiates from him and you feel a sharp jolt of arousal. Last night, this morning, you can’t get enough of him. He guides you to sit under the shade of the roof and kneels behind you. Your heart is racing. His strong hands massage the lotion into your shoulders and it feels _incredible_. You don’t hold back your mewl. His fingers glide lower, but he doesn’t respond otherwise. Gently, a hand on your spine moves you to lie on your front, flashes of the night prior flickering before you.

“James!”

You squeak when his fingers untie your bikini top. A hand again, stilling you when you try to snatch the loose ends.

“Ssh, princess. Don’t want any tan lines, do you?”

You’re far out enough from land, but still, there are plenty of other boats out here. The yacht roof only affords so much privacy. A thrill of excitement rushes through you when James slides out your bikini top from under you. It’s right there, should you need it. But something tells you that he won’t let you, not yet. And it ignites that white hot desire you’ve been running on since you met him.

A breath of fresh air, a haven. A piece of quiet in an otherwise noisy world. You, James, that’s it. You’re a little stunned because after all, you’re on a _yacht_. You’re on a yacht in _Monaco_. Folded arms cushion your head, raised just enough to see James pull his sketchbook from his bag. He stretches out, grinning as he makes deft strokes on the paper with his pencil. The merest hint of your breasts, the definite curve of your ass, hair fluttering in the sea breeze.

“Turn over, princess.”

The low baritone of James is an order, not a request. A brief moment of hesitation. You glance towards your bikini top. A tilt of his head, angled jaw high in the air. He pushes the black material out of your reach. Your eyes flicker to his, but they’re still hidden behind sunglasses. The ferocity of his stare is unmistakable, however. He won’t ask you again.

It’s sexy for all the wrong reasons. No, _right_ reasons? Another boat drifts past, your belly somersaulting as you wonder if they can see you. You’re laid out exactly the way James desires. You half expect him to cast his sketchbook aside but he exerts control. Fingers ghost over your skin, dipping under you to make you arch your back enough to push your breasts in the air. Dampness between your legs. A knowing smirk from James, he continues to sketch.

It’s palpable, the tension. Want. A pulsing between your legs. Your eyes follow his hand, every move a shockwave of heady need. You’re under his spell, happily so.

The sound of the waves eventually lull you to sleep. A nap, one that lasts long enough to make you yawn when you stir. Eyes screeching at the sudden burst of sun, you shield them, blinking until James comes into focus. A smile, soft because he’s nodded off too. He looks so _cute_ when he’s sleeping. Lashes fluttering and it makes you wonder what he’s dreaming of. You, perhaps. His fluffy hair dances in the breeze, arms crossed under his head. Skin bronzed already, you yearn to run your hands all over him.

Bikini safely back in place, you stand. A pleasant buzz when you stretch, tiptoeing out from under the shade. The handrail burns hot, but you quickly acclimatise. Monaco curves out behind the yacht, the high sloping cliff and the impressive _Musée_   _Océanographique_. Inhaling the salty air, your body trembles when a pair of arms wrap around your waist.

“Enjoyin’ the view?” whispers James.

A bloom of butterflies. He sounds lazy, voice gravelly with sleep. A kiss under your ear. You hum in response.

“Me too.”

A tightening in your core. You can feel his hardened length pressed against your ass. A furtive glance at the boats in your proximity. Not quite near, not quite far. A thrilling jolt. Exciting, arousing, you’ve never felt so _dirty_. James’ lips worship your neck with soft sucks, open-mouthed kisses and deft flicks of his tongue. Your whole body arches into him. Hands caress your skin and then quick as anything, he’s pulling your bikini top off.

“James!” you shriek, but his hands keep yours clutched around the rail. “Someone could see!”

“Let them,” he growls, biting your shoulder playfully. “Don’t you dare move your hands.”

“But, James- “

“Move, and I’ll bend you over and spank you for them all to see.”

You’re _soaked_ , dripping and _throbbing_. Your eyes dart at the boats surrounding you. There’s no-one visible, but you’re still so _exposed_. Gasping and keening as James glides a finger through your dampness. The most devilish chuckle, bordering on evil.

“All that whining but you’re fuckin’ _drenched_ , princess,” he says in your ear. “This turns you on, doesn’t it? _Answer_ _me_.”

“Yes.” you say in a small voice.

A harsh pinch at your nipple. You cry out, eyes widening as you fear being heard.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, _sir_. _Yes_ , this turns me on.”

Your core throbs with anticipation, heat rising with every circle of James’ fingers. You lean farther into him as he teases you. Melting into his touch, his teeth graze over your neck and you grip the rail tighter. A rustle, you feel James’ shorts pool at his feet.

“Gotta admit, princess,” he says with relish, the head of his cock nudging your entrance. “I love that I don’t need a condom. Means I can fuck you wherever and whenever I want.”

His words are fuel to the fire burning in you. You’re powerless, silently pleading for more.

“And right now, I wanna fuck you out here where everyone can see.”

A whimper zips through the air, James sliding into you in one swift motion. You’re gripping the rail so tight, your knuckles have whitened. He chuckles deviously, reminding you that you’re in public. _He_ doesn’t mind. No-one else can have you. But they can watch. Watch you lose it because of _him._  You’re left dizzy and breathless, moaning recklessly.

That possessiveness again, because he’s spreading your legs further apart and pressing a hand into your back until you’re bent at the waist. He buries himself deep, over and over and you _take_ _it_ , your core twisting and turning. You’re burning, every inch of you. Out in the open sun, your gasps carrying across the sea. Your muscles strain as you try to balance on your toes, James driving you to the brink of insanity. Every rough rut of his hips sends you maddeningly close to your orgasm and somehow, you pant out a beg for him to make you come.

“Please, James, _sir_. I- “

“You what, princess? You gonna come?”

A frenzied nod, equally frenzied words of confirmation. He chuckles, sounding as breathless as you but there’s a playfulness to it. You feel so _full_ , brimming with James’ cock, your mouth slack with pleasure. He’s frantic now, as desperate as you. His hand leaves your hip, fingers rolling your clit. Skin hot and slick with sweat, sticking to your own. Arousal dripping down your thighs. Your head begins to spin, core tightened impossibly.

“Come for me, princess,” he growls, words choked and rough. “Wanna feel you come around my cock. Want everyone to see you come just for _me_.”

Your whole body stiffens at his order, obedient to James as you come. A moan of his name, sinfully loud and he comes too, spilling into you with short, shallow thrusts that only heighten the exquisite ecstasy you’re drowning in. Dizzy with pleasure and utterly _ruined_ , your arms wobble as you try to remain upright. You still can’t quite believe what’s just transpired, eyes darting to other boats in the vicinity and barely registering what James’ is saying.

A whine when James slides out of you and a squeak of surprise when he swats your ass. You dare to turn around, finding him just as debauched as you. A sated smirk, a flicker in his eyes because he’s positively _thrilled_. Sweat glistens on his chest. You never do quite catch your breath.

* * *

Wreaked with the exertion of the past twenty four hours, you and James order room service, enjoying dinner on your private terrace. A compromise, you’ll head down to the casino later so as not to waste the entire evening. Memories of the day send your body into a furious flush without fail. James is less perturbed, sitting back in his chair with his legs parted wide. He’s wearing the taupe pants and white shirt again, the buttons completely undone this time and you’re sure it’s just to turn you on. In response, your silk robe is barely tied together and you’re bare beneath. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. You’re both waiting for the other to give in. So much for not wanting to exert yourselves.

James is on the phone, talking in rapid fire legal terms. You catch his attention, licking and circling your tongue over your spoonful of gelato. Eyes slightly lidded, he runs his tongue along the seam of his lips. A hum that’s quiet but still audible. He blinks, apologising to whoever he’s speaking to as he’s missed a good portion of the conversation. You giggle and stand, stretching nimbly before disappearing back inside the suite. You’re rifling through a rack of dresses when James appears.

“Sorry, babygirl,” he frowns, tossing his shirt in the laundry basket. “Someone’s just found out I’m here and I gotta meet him.”

James prattles on, his pants landing atop his shirt. He insists you take your time getting ready, that you should join him down at the casino in an hour. He still wants to take you out and not spend the duration of the week focused on work. You nod as he switches the shower on.

“I should probably shave first.” he muses, stroking his jaw and your eyes swell.

“No!”

James blinks, caught between a smile and confusion. He’s a little befuddled, and you cringe at your schoolgirl behaviour. He waits for you to elaborate, steam rising in the bathroom. You bite your lip. Should you really tell him such a thing? Does it step into the territory of “ _relationship_ ”? You figure he won’t drop the subject, so you saunter over and run a hand along his jawline, letting your fingers drag through the coarse hairs. He’s let it grow out for a few days, the stubble slowly merging into a beard. You shiver, wondering what it would feel like between your legs.

“I like it,” you confess, grinning cheekily. “The beard on you. It’s… hot.”

“Yeah?” he bears a grin too, hands cupping your ass.

“Yes,” you nod emphatically, blatant enthusiasm flushing your cheeks. “It makes you look so sexy. And with the fluffy hair, it’s so... _Daddy_.”

“ _Daddy_?”

Your eyes double in size. You stutter, trying to find a way out of the grave you’ve dug yourself into.

“I just mean as a description,” you add hurriedly. “I’m not _calling_ you Daddy, but it’s the only word I could think of.”

“Uh huh,” he smirks. “Alright, princess. Seeing as you like it so much. The Daddy Beard stays.”

You cringe again but he tips your face up, holding your gaze with lust blown eyes.

“One condition,” he rasps. “I wanna see how much you like it. Later, I want you to ride my face. Got that, princess?”

James departs for the casino in a tuxedo. Shiny blue dress pants, a pressed white shirt with black bow tie and a peacock blue velvet jacket with navy velvet detailing. He winks at you, a smirk still tugging at his lips and all you can manage is a replay of his words.

_“I wanna see how much you like it. Later, I want you to ride my face. Got that, princess?”_

James always takes the upper hand with such ease. Most times you have no complaints, offer no resistance. But just once, much like the time after you met his ex-fiance, you want him reduced to a quivering mess. You want him breathless from just one look at you. And when your fingers stop at a particular dress, he’ll be lucky if he’s still alive after he sees you in it.

An hour later, you sashay through the doors of Casino Monte-Carlo. Opulently decorated with marble and bronze, it’s as if you’ve stepped into a Hollywood film. All glitz and glamour, you spot a few celebrities. But you’re not here to be dazzled. No, you’re here to _stun_.

James has his back to you, but you recognise him instantly. Those broad shoulders, blue velvet jacket sitting snug on his arms. He’s at a roulette table, opposite a man with gelled hair and spectacles. You’ve seen Casino Royale. You know the move you need to execute. Nerves flutter in your tummy. A deep breath for confidence. You strut forward until you’re behind him, the scent of your perfume to accompany the drag of your fingers across his shoulders. He starts, turning his head in time for his lips to meet yours in a searing kiss. Heart racing, you swallow his soft gasp, before drawing back.

Seemingly forgetting where he is, James inhales sharply. A silver dress with a hemline brushing the floor, it hugs you in all the right places. A plunging halter neck that drops just under your breasts, it’s daring and his pupils widen until only a mere ring of blue is visible. The diamond necklace he bought you, almost a symbol of the claim he has on you. You finger it lightly, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your game.” you remark innocently, following with a seductive smile.

“Not at all, princess,” says James, clearing his throat. “This is Justin Hammer. Justin, this is Y/N.”

A guffaw, folly and full of childish wonder. No further description is needed, you’re very much aware of the bumbling and often hapless inventor. Even James isn’t as foolish to put him in the same category as Tony Stark. No matter how much his anger rises.

“Well, _hello_ _beautiful_ ,” says Justin, you smile through your recoil. “Wow, man. She’s _young_. Oh, oh, wait, I get it.”

Justin leans over the table and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“He’s your Sugar Daddy, right?”

An apt label, no doubt. One you’re not ashamed of. But the manner in which Justin Hammer says it makes you feel uncomfortable. As if it’s something dirty, _wrong_. You plaster a simpering smile on your face for his benefit.

“Vanity Fair doesn’t do your powers of deduction any justice, Mr. Hammer.”

Your reply is smart, unperturbed, and you feel James’ snort ripple through his shoulder. Squeezing it gently, you bat your eyelashes at him. He should finish his game. You’ll be at the bar waiting for him. A turn on your heel, flashing him the back of your dress. Or rather, the lack thereof. You can feel his eyes boring into the smooth skin of your back, the silver of your dress draped over your ass. His head isn’t the only one that turns when you order a martini.

Feeling a surge of confidence, you sit at an angle that allows you a view of James. You don’t miss the way his eyes flit over to you every so often. A bite that turns his lips from pink to red. A smirk of approval at your choice of poison. Bond Girls have nothing on you. Eventually, you grow tiresome. Tedious of playing the part of a pretty face from afar, you drain the last of your martini and saunter back to James. A flash of apology in his eyes. Justin Hammer insists on one final game.

“High stakes, whaddya say, Barnes?” goads Justin, arms thrown wide.

“The higher the better.” grins James and Justin claps loudly, a couple of people stopping to watch.

“Alright, alright, let’s see,” mulls Justin, hands diving into his pockets. “All this, and I’ll thrown in my car.”

A set of keys hit the table, your eyes widening at the badge on the leather keyring.

“A La Ferrari?” echoes James, sucking in a breath of air excitedly. “You weren’t kidding when you said high stakes.”

“No shit,” chortles Justin. “Now come on, what are you putting on the table? Hey, how’ bout your girl?”

James stills and your heart sinks as you square your shoulders, staring down his opponent.

“I’m not a prize to be won, Mr. Hammer,” you say firmly. “And even if I was, I’ve already been claimed by a worthy victor.”

Your hand finds James’ shoulder once more as your eyes meet. His twinkle with marvel and appreciation. Justin merely laughs, along with a few of the old men who have stopped to watch the contest.

“Oh, come on, beautiful,” he teases. “It could be fun. What do you say, Barnes? A La Ferrari costs at least two million. Three million? Unless you don’t think she’s worth that much…”

A few jeers ripple through the crowd. James’ jaw clenches into a hard line. There’s no use denying the tremor of concern that courses through you. For a moment, you think he’s about to agree. But he asks for a pen and piece of paper. He scratches something down, throwing it atop Justin’s keys.

“You’re not having her. It’s not up for debate,” he says in a tone of finality. “If I lose, I’ll drop Stark. Take you on instead.”

“ _James_!”

You heart soars at James’ protectiveness before dropping back into your stomach. Tony Stark is his _biggest_ _client_ , he can’t possibly be prepared to risk him. Not for _you_. But he’s smiling, playfully, powerfully. Waiting for Justin’s reaction. The imbecile is just as stunned but he welcomes the deal nonetheless and the wheel’s spinning. James tilts his head into the air.

“How ‘bout a kiss for good luck, princess?”

A scoff from Justin is dutifully ignored. You lean down, cupping James’ jaw and pressing your lips to his. It’s not a short peck, it’s possessive and greedy, a show of pride and a taunt that Justin won’t have you. It borders on something dangerously emotional, but as ever, you don’t let it end your game and neither does he. You’re hesitant when James asks you to pick a number. A shake of your head. He insists. Nine. You pick the number nine. Justin opts for thirteen.

It all happens in slow motion. The crowd around you thickens. Your breath catches. Your heart pounds in your chest. James slides an arm around your waist. His fingers are hot on your skin. Justin grins maliciously. The wheel spins. The ball clunks. It bounces around. And then, it drops neatly into a slot marked with a bold, white number nine.

James is the first to respond, rising from his stool with a triumphant roar. You’re frozen with shock, rooted to the spot, barely registering that he’s drawn you into his arms. His mouth crashes down on yours, kissing you wildly and passionately. Instinctively, your hands steady themselves on his shoulders, muscles hard under the soft velvet. He’s as uncaring about your audience as you, tongue stroking and caressing yours and you can feel yourself giving into him.

A bit-back whine when he pulls away. Ever the gentleman, he shakes Justin’s hand before helping himself to the spoils of war. You’re breathing heavily, grateful to be dragged away before Justin Hammer can pounce. Not one for modesty, James’ first move is to hand the car keys to the valet. A quintessentially red Ferrari, gleaming under the Mediterranean starry sky. The valet is brushed off, James opens the door for you himself. A few minutes in which he runs his fingers over the steering wheel, whistling lowly at the interior. You admire it too, squealing when the engine roars to life and you’re zooming off into the night.

James is as delighted as a young boy in a toy shop, a permanent grin attached to his features. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, and the added bonus of Justin Hammer’s comeuppance. The roads are quiet, barely a car or two so he has no qualms about glancing over at you and your equally excited smile. It’s addicting, the feeling of flying so fast through Monaco. You’re light as a feather, tummy somersaulting and heart doing backflips.

“Really lucked out with you, didn’t I, babygirl?” says James, tone laced with sexy charm.

You flash a devious smile at him in the semi-darkness. Heat pools in your belly, core humming because you’re not done with being daring. Not yet.

“I’d say you’re about to get luckier.”

“What- oh, _fuck_.”

James curses loudly, car swerving slightly as you unzip his pants all the while nuzzling your face into his neck. The scruff of his jawline tickles as you kiss along it but it feels so _good_ , you’re glad you told him how much you adore it. He hardens the moment you wrap a hand around him, softly gliding your palm up and down, fingers teasing the head of his cock. He gasps and you giggle, shushing him with a hot kiss.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Bucky.”

Only once before have you called him that, in a very similar situation where you held the control. Much like then, he whines in consent and it rouses a wave of arousal within you. You stroke him a little harder, twisting down his length and running your thumb across the wet tip. Another kiss or two down his neck. A sharp little bite at his earlobe. His whole body jerks, a whimper catching in his throat. A giggle, full of mischief and he briefly takes his eyes off the road to see you lower your head and lick the vein that runs along the underside of his shaft.

“Jesus, _fuck_! Princess, you’ve gotta- _fuck_!”

Protests, they’re half-hearted really. You know he’s long given into the sensation of your wet, warm mouth around his cock. You suck the tip eagerly, purring at the salty taste that spreads over your tongue. Wet kisses that are tainted with the promise of ravishing him, you trail them over his length. And then, wordlessly, you draw him into your mouth fully, earning a shocked but relieved gasp. You gag slightly when the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat. It’s almost too much for James, he slams down on the brakes, pulling the car over and choking out a few pleas.

Both hands still on the wheel, his groans blend with the wet sounds of your mouth bobbing up and down his cock. He’s heavy and hard against your tongue, pulsing at the vibration your hum evokes around him. You can feel his body tighten beneath you, breaths shallow and you press him deep into the back of your throat again. A hand in your hair, a warning that’s he _so fucking close_. You show no mercy, mouth moving faster and you feel his cock swell in your mouth as he cries your name hoarsely, coming in hot spurts down your throat.

Only when he’s slumped in his seat do you ease off. James opens his eyes blearily, groaning at the sight of you licking your lips. It’s _obscene_ , another outrageously filthy memory in the span of the day. An innocent smile just for him. The pride you feel replaced by icy harshness when he stares at you.

“Get out the car.”

“What?”

“Get out the fuckin’ car. _Right_ _now_.”

Concern, followed by relief when he roughly pushes you into the driver’s seat. He’s a little shaky as he drops into the passenger seat beside you, exhaling a ragged breath. A succession of blinks. He quips a brow.

“What’re you waiting for, princess? Drive.”

A gleeful grin on his part as you start the engine. The Ferrari vibrates with force. An undeniable ripple of adrenaline. You don’t need to be told twice. And suddenly, the allure of such an extravagant lifestyle becomes crystal clear. You _love_ this. You’re wearing a beautiful dress, driving a several million dollar car, a sinfully attractive man with you. It’s _exhilarating_. Liberating. Everything you’ve only ever dreamed of and you lose yourself in the fantasy that this is your reality.

A touch from James jolts you out of your daydream. His fingers tug down the top of your dress and you squeak as your breasts are exposed. Whether he’s not had his fill from earlier, or he’s simply exacting his revenge, you’re uncertain. Whatever his reason, his fingers are tugging at your nipples, evaporating any rationality you might have held. He takes his time, torturing you in the most pleasurable way possible.

“Eyes on the road, princess.” he orders coarsely, the words a pang of heat in your core.

Exposed again, at least this time it’s dark and there’s very few cars on the road. You’re mewling, a strangled gasp when he pinches harshly. A brief wave of pain, drowned out by an ache for more. A thought that James seems to sense, his fingers hitching your dress up and he moans something pornographic at the feel of your slick folds.

“No panties? _Fuck_ , you really are a dirty little girl.”

You cry out, moaning James’ name filthily as he sinks his middle finger into your throbbing core, pumping it in and out as your concentration on the road falters. A second finger, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit in perfect tandem. Your head’s swimming, the building thrum winning over any semblance of concern. You’re almost back at the hotel, excitement thrilling you because anyone could see, anyone could look through the window and see you with your breasts bared and James fucking you with his fingers.

“James, James, _please._  We’re almost _there_.”

“Then you’d better come, princess. ‘Cause you aren’t getting out this car until you do.”

You chase an euphoria only James knows how to provide you with. The pleasure mounts to a staggering height as you pull the car into the hotel’s driveway. You’re _right_ _there_ , walls clenching around his fingers and he works them faster, grinds his hand down harder and you’re done for. Bliss crashes down on you, the engine drowning out the moans James coaxes from you. Your hips buck against his hand, vision blurring and undeniable _ecstasy_ seeping through your whole body. Foot slamming down hard on the brakes, the Ferrari comes to an abrupt halt, James withdrawing his hand in time and setting your dress right. Not that you notice, you’re gripping the wheel so tightly. Breathless, ruined by James. Wetness between your legs. A delicious burn in your core.

“ _Mademoiselle_?”

The valet looks at you with furrowed brows. He’s had the door open for five minutes already. James is beside him, offering you a hand. The devil incarnate, that’s what his smile reeks of. You wobble unsteadily and the valet is concerned even more so. James tugs you against him, an arm wound around your waist as you smile weakly.

“She’s fine,” he insists with a cocky grin. “It was an _exhilarating_ _ride_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	15. Quinze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get an email. James takes you dancing.
> 
> Smut Warnings: dirty talk, face-sitting, foursome/group sex, oral sex, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves! As promised, here is the next instalment of this story. I hope you're ready for a wild ride!

“James!”

A shriek that rips through the air. The early morning peace disturbed. James yelps, bolting upright as you leap on the bed, straddling his waist and squealing excitedly. There’s an old man joke wrapped up there neatly for you, particularly with the way he clutches his chest but your excitement overrides it all. James blinks in rapid succession, sobered from sleep far too soon than is comfortable. Sensing no imminent danger, he flops back on to the pillows. A groan, accompanied by a rub of his tired eyes.

“When I said you should wake me, this was  _not_  what I meant.” he grumbles with a half-hearted glare.

“But, James! I have an email from  _Alexander Pierce_!”

James is wide awake all of a sudden. Eyes as wide as yours. A delighted smile appears on his face. Fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, or rather,  _his_  shirt. It’s a simple white button up, one you’ve taken to swanning about in. Only because it seemed to drive him  _crazy_  yesterday morning. You fretted at first, convinced it stepped far into relationship territory. He didn’t think so. So you’ve claimed it as your own now. The fact that it’s seeped in his scent is simply a bonus.

“Yeah?” he asks, fingers curved over your bare thighs. “What’s it say?”

“He says he was  _impressed_  by the pieces I sent him! And he wants to  _meet_  me next week!”

You clap your hands to your mouth but it does little to conceal your elation. In truth, you’re overwhelmed. Never in your wildest dreams did you ever expect such high praise. Not from a publishing legend like  _Alexander Pierce_. A surreal moment. You’re engulfed in the luxury of Monaco, silky white bedsheets and the gentle crash of the waves. Golden light pouring in through the slight gap of the curtains. James naked beneath you, a charming grin that sets off a family of butterflies in your tummy. A life you never imagined. Not even in your wildest fantasies.

“I’m real proud of you, babygirl,” he beams, fingers briefly squeezing just below the curve of your ass. “That’s amazing!”

A hand fists in the collar of your shirt, pulling you down into a kiss that has you moaning against his lips. The slight scratch of his beard. His chest warm from sleep. Fingers drawing soft circles on the outside of your thighs. You’re barely awake and James already has your head swimming. Your disappointed whine is met with a chorus of chuckles, the kiss over all too soon. He’s grasping for the phone, ordering a bottle of champagne and those chocolate covered strawberries you’re so deeply fond of. A stunned expression greets him.

“We’re celebratin’,” he says simply, but not without a crooked grin. “Whatever you wanna do today.”

A subtle hitch of your breath when his rough fingers skim across your thighs. But, your smile is nothing short of joyous. Your own fingers sweep over his scruffy jawline. A slight grind of your hips and you feel him twitch beneath you.

“ _Whatever_  I want?” you echo teasingly, ghosting your lips over his. “I want to go dancing.”

James is momentarily befuddled. The fog lifts with the clarification that by dancing, you mean to a  _club_. Monaco must house a few of those, surely. He hesitates, suggesting a fancy dinner in one of the many exclusive restaurants, a once in a lifetime opportunity. You’re insistent, you want to go dancing.

“ _Please_ , sir,” you say, earning a groan. “Don’t you want to see me in a nice little dress, just for you? Dancing with your hands all over me?”

A kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth. James sighs, his head tilting to better chase your lips but you giggle and nip at his ear. Another whisper of “ _please_ ,  _sir_ ” and a deliberate rock of your hips. A raspy voice that’s weakened with lust.

“Whatever my princess wants.”

A victory that’s short lived. A harsh spank that has you squealing and bucking your hips against his hardening cock. A mischievous glimmer in James’ impossibly blue eyes. Plump pink lips dampened by his tongue.

“I wanna treat you today.”

A flutter in your core. Every word carrying a suggestive meaning. He makes it quite plain when he cocks his to head one side, asking if you remember his  _condition_  from the night prior.

_“I wanna see how much you like it. Later, I want you to ride my face. Got that, princess?”_

A whimper, it escapes despite your best efforts. Heat prickles all over your skin, body awash in raw desire. You can feel yourself growing wet. James’ defined chest rises and falls with every breath, blue eyes slowly colouring darker with his heightening arousal. His large hands cup your ass, squeezing on the right side of rough.

“C’mon, princess,” he gruffs. “Bring that pretty pussy up here.”

“ _James_!”

You have little choice but to follow the guide of his hands. Knees either side of his head. Breath tickling your hot core as you hover over his face. He’s looking at you greedily, groaning loudly as if he’s never seen anything so  _divine_  before. A growl, and he’s yanking you down on to his face.

“ _James_!”

Your hands fly to the headboard, desperate to steady yourself as his mouth finds your dripping core. Hungry sounds that send tremors of pleasure through you, he all but  _worships_  your throbbing clit with his tongue and instinctively, you grind down against his hot mouth. You’re reeling with wanton desire, his beard coarse and rough on your sensitive folds but you seemingly can’t get enough of it. You cry out when he draws back for a moment.

“ _Fuck_ , princess,” he growls out. “C’mon, don’t hold back.  _Ride_  my face. Fuck yourself on it. I wanna feel you come all over it.”

Filthy words that incite another wave of dampness, one that James moans blissfully at. He squeezes your ass again, fucking you with his tongue and it’s so  _sinful_. He’s so  _good_  with his mouth. Every flick of his tongue and every suck of your clit wrenching gasps of his name. They hang in the air, air that’s thick with sex and sin. Your thighs are burning from his beard but it’s the kind of pain you revel in, grinding down harder on James’ face.

“James, I’m so close,” you mewl out, nails biting into the headboard. “Please, sir,  _please_  make me come.”

You’re dancing with danger, teetering close to the edge. Head a foggy mess and entire body aflame and it’s all for  _James_. He laps at your clit, a finger teasing your ass and a harsh suck has you screaming out his name as you come undone. Orgasm crashing through you, you writhe against his face as he slows to soft licks until you’re a whimpering mess, half slumped against the headboard and sighing as your skin tingles all over.

James’ face glistens, beard practically soaked and hair tousled. The sight alone is enough to spark renewed desire low in your belly. A smirk, a devilish one that promises he enjoyed that just as much as you did. Eyes widening, you claim his lips in a passionate kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Fuck, princess,” he swears in between sloppy open-mouthed kisses. “Fuckin’ love you coming all over my face like that.”

A moment shattered when Friday knocks on the door, announcing the arrival of your champagne and strawberries. A moment of embarrassment because James doesn’t bother cleaning himself up before yanking the door open, your release still evident all over his jaw.

* * *

 

A beautiful day that has the Mediterranean sea sparkling with gleaming white specs amidst the crystal blue. Undeniable warmth blanketing your bared skin. Sand hot between your toes. Salty air whipping you in a light breeze. James’ voice is a husky murmur, words of him slipping down to the water. A moment to yourself, one you use to reflect on the day so far.

True to his word, James proceeds to spoil you most lavishly. After a small celebratory breakfast of champagne and chocolate covered strawberries on your private terrace, you’re whisked to the shower where, with your back pressed to the cold tiles, he takes you hard and rough, your moans echoing off the marble walls. A second breakfast, one you endure with your thighs pressed together because the sole occupant of your mind is the memory of you riding James’ face. The sharp sting of your skin serves as reminder enough. A stab of self-consciousness when you strip down to your bikini at the beach. You hope there’s little evidence on your bared skin of the utter ecstasy James is intent on showering you with.

James really is the embodiment of sex and charm. You’re constantly consumed with thoughts of him. Erotic images seared into your memory. Needy for him almost all the time and it’s maddening that all it takes is a simple look, a bite of his lip, the low baritone of his voice for heat to pool thick and fast in your belly. You know it’s dangerous, you shouldn’t let him rule your mind and body so. But equally, James is  _all_  you want.

A raise of your head catches James on his way back to you and just as ever, you’re slick with want for this gorgeous adonis of a man. Shorts cling to his thighs and you bite back a moan. Droplets of water roll down his chest, raining into the divots of the defined muscles there. Fine hairs golden in the light. His dexterous fingers card through his wet hair, sweeping it back almost erotically. A shadow cast over you, he’s standing before you with a dirty grin. You find your gaze drawn to a drop of water that trails down his collarbone and over his stomach before disappearing under the waistband of his shorts.

James is a  _tease_. Taunting you mercilessly out in the open and it takes every ounce of your self-control to not throw yourself into his arms. Short, shallow breaths. Whole body thrumming. The sheer frustration because you only stop back at the hotel long enough to shower and change before James is taking you out for lunch.

Café de Paris. An Art Nouveau brasserie famed for its terrace, a place you most certainly want to be spotted. You’re seated at a prime table because of James’ connections, watching the spectacle that is Monte Carlo. A waiter hastily flapping his arms at a Citroen to make way for a Bentley. Tourists entering the casino with giddy smiles. James eyeing you most interestedly from across the table as he orders for you.  _Salade_   _Cobb_   _Café_   _de_   _Paris_ , of course, followed by grilled sea bass and profiteroles with vanilla and hot chocolate sauce. Wine, naturally, and you leave feeling pleasantly lightheaded.

Hand nestled in the crook of James’ elbow, he insists on taking you shopping. He wants to spoil you with a new dress for tonight.  _Despite_  your protests. There are no less than six unworn dresses in the closet, yet you end up leaving the store with a Balmain bag hanging from his free arm. New shoes too, because frugality is not a word James is familiar with. He doesn’t stop there either, tugging you in the direction of Cartier.

“But… but you already bought me a  _necklace_!”

James is aghast. Shocked that you would even consider wearing it with your new dress. The neckline simply wouldn’t allow it he says, as if he’s discussing something trivial such as replacing the oil in a car engine.

White gold earrings, each set with two square cut diamonds and fifteen brilliant cut diamonds. A nod of your head, a pretence of understanding the craftsmanship and value of the jewels. The earrings sparkle as bright as the sun. You’re hypnotised, a shiver racing down your spine when James presses his mouth to your ear.

“You know, I never saw the appeal of that Titanic scene,” he murmurs. “But now,  _all_  I can think of is drawing you in these earrings and the necklace.  _Just_  the earrings and necklace.”

A dark promise rife with wild desire. Mind racing, you stifle a whimper. James holds a stance of measured ease. The polar opposite of the tremble that courses through you. The sales assistant is oblivious, James’ voice low enough that only you can hear his dirty nothings.

“Think you could be a good girl and sit still long enough?” he continues, fingers massaging small circles into your lower back.

A slight nod of your head, lips pressed tightly together but your eagerness is poorly concealed. A dark chuckle.

“Always such a good girl for me, princess. That’s why I got you another present.”

Whirling around, you blink up at him incredulously. At first, you expect more diamonds but there’s a devious edge to his piercing gaze. The way you clench around nothing tells you it’s certainly not expensive jewels. A flicker of raw heat. A warning to be a good girl and you’ll find out soon enough.

* * *

James is out on the terrace, a cigarette balanced between his long, dexterous fingers. An oxford blue polo, the top button casually undone. The short sleeves a tight fit on his biceps. A vein that runs down the length of his right arm, taut against his tanned skin when he raises the cigarette to his lips. He’s  _gorgeous_  without so much as  _trying_. You only hope for a similar reaction when he sees you in your dress, the very one he bought you earlier today. Fingers smoothing it down, you make your way out the bedroom. A click of your high heels on the wooden floor, but it takes a quiet ahem to capture his attention. One glance, and his cigarette is seemingly forgotten. A dying ember, one he carelessly tosses into the ashtray.

It’s Balmain, the dress. Embellished with black sequins all over and adorned with a grid of silver crystals. A figure flattering fit, it’s short, ending high up your thighs. A plunging neckline that squares off just under your breasts, curves teasingly visible beneath the sheer black mesh. James’ eyes trickle down to your ankle boots, patent black leather with pointed toes and a sharp, high heel.

Heart fluttering, skin heating up under his gaze. He lets outs a loud exhale and tugs his lip between his teeth until it turns red. Eyes that darken enough to spark a fire low in your belly. He looks ready to pounce, but you won’t let him. Not yet anyway. You have every intention of going to this elusive club he’s promised. If you happen to tease him the entire night, well, it’ll be fun, won’t it?

James’ hand finds your lower back, small finger barely brushing the curve of your ass. He’s leading you straight past the small queue of people gathered outside the club. A few tourists hoping to be admitted inside. You know they never will. At the doors, you’re immediately granted entrance. James knows the owners apparently, you’ll meet them later tonight.

A sultry moodiness. Red, black and gold. Modern baroque appears to be the theme. You notice that every minute detail has been paid the utmost attention. Exotic leathers and woods, crushed red velvet couches, hand-blown glass lighting, marble bars. Your head spins at the sheer luxury of it all.

James struts with ease, his large hand engulfing your smaller one as he leads you to the bar. Your eyes widen at the sight of a few well known actresses. Models giggling with each other. A Hollywood heartthrob or two. A flute of champagne. His lips brushing your ear. It’s very exclusive, he whispers huskily. What happens in this club,  _stays_  in this club.

A couple of drinks and you’re in your element. Persuading James to dance with you. He’s a little reluctant initially. A pout, an unsubtle press of your body against his. His resolve weakens. A crowd around you but James is the only one you care to notice. His hands drifting lazily down your sides, a deliberate squeeze of your hips as you grind against him. The air thick with tension and your head thrown back in delight as he drags your body with his in rhythm. The songs blend together, one easily fading into the next.

Warmth radiates from James’ hands. They rest on your hips, a soft but firm grip that’s all too purposeful. The perfect balance of innocent and teasing. The feel of his hard chest caressing your back. Lips that ghost over your neck. You’re hot all over, skin flushing under your dress. Whole body thrumming with anticipation. Lost in the sensation of James, you give into the pleasant lightheadedness that comes with drinking and dancing. Fun and sexy and  _freeing_.

The loss of James’ hands has you whining, spinning around to see him greet a couple. A tall, willowy woman with flowing black hair that’s streaked with blonde. Tattoos peppered here and there. Bold eyes rimmed with black kohl. She’s pretty, her perfume shrouding you sensually when she kisses your cheeks. James introduces her as Vanessa.

Vanessa’s hand is clasped in a man’s. He’s tall, well built with a finely chiselled jaw and closely shaved brown hair. A sharp nick in his eyebrow, a soft smattering of hair under his collarbone. Handsomeness equal to her beauty, he goes by the name of Wade Wilson. You learn they own this club. Old friends as well as clients of James. That much is obvious, as there’s an air of ease about James when Wade kisses your cheeks. No jealous streak, no angry flair. If anything, he looks a little amused, exchanging a glance with Vanessa.

James’ mouth on your ear, a quick word that he’ll be right back with more drinks. Wade follows him, the two men with their elbows propped on the marble bar. Vanessa’s company is pleasant, you’re warm and fuzzy all over. A shared dance. Her fingers grazing your arm flirtatiously. You’re emboldened enough to return the gesture. Her giggle is musical, she leans into you as you dance and it brings out a glint in James’ eyes as Wade gestures at you to follow.

A VIP room. The music at a more bearable volume here. Darkened glass that offers a view of the dance floor. You spy a few famous faces, celebrities one the dance floor. Even politicians at the bar. No wonder Wade and Vanessa operate under such stringent policies. It’s all exclusive. Non-disclosure agreements, drafted by James no doubt. He’s making himself comfortable on one of the black leather couches. A red velvet cushion propped behind him. A smirk as he sits with his legs parted invitingly wide. A look in his eyes that commands you to sit beside him.

Vanessa perches on the opposite couch. Wade pours four equal measures of tequila and there’s a toast. You all throw back your respective shots, a pleasant buzz relaxing you. James’ arm is thrown around the back of the couch, a finger slowly rubbing circles on your shoulder. Vanessa has a hand on Wade’s thigh, the couple closely nestled together. A quick peck of her cheek. She giggles. Warmth grows between your thighs.

“Where did you find such a pretty girl, Bucky?” teases Vanessa, earning a round of chuckles.

“Guess I got lucky.” he answers with an equally teasing grin.

You arch an eyebrow, dryly confirming his statement but it’s all in jest. Wade’s laughter the loudest, he continues peppering kisses down Vanessa’s neck. Her big, beautiful eyes are fixed on yours, steadily glazing over as she melts into Wade. His hand’s sliding up her skirt now, the lace tops of her sheer black stockings exposed.

Heart pounding, you turn your head. James isn’t watching them. He’s watching  _you_. Head tilted to one side, cheekbones prominent and an ocean raging in his stormy blue eyes. A lack of surprise at the couple’s behaviour. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And you? You turn back to Vanessa, an unspoken conversation exchanged and she stands to dance with you.

Vanessa is beautiful in a breathtaking way. Giggles, hers and yours mingle together. You curve your palms around her hips, and she’s grinding against you softly in time to the beat. As much a show for James and Wade as it is for you and her. Her perfume dizzying you, the sliver of skin just above the waistband of her skin so delicate. Your hands slide up her stomach, stopping just short of her breasts. A quick glimpse at James reveals hooded eyes. You smirk and press your mouth to her ear, and a hushed whisper back confirms her boyfriend is just as enraptured.

Delighted giggles when you spin her around to face you. Carefully brushing her dark hair from her face, you lean in, your lips mere millimetres from hers. You know James is watching, but a jolt of arousal tells you that you want this for a reason that isn’t solely him. A thigh slid in between her legs, a soft whine. Panties slowly dampening as the temperature rises.

“You’re so pretty, Vanessa,” you say quietly, heat pooling in your tummy. “Can I kiss you?”

“Won’t your boyfriend mind?” she grins, a pointed look in James’ direction.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you smirk. “How about yours?”

“Oh, you’re cute for thinking he has a choice.”

Your hand wraps around the back of Vanessa’s neck, pulling her close and her giggle is muffled when you press your lips to hers. Her lips are soft, sweet, the way they slide against yours. You smile into the kiss, a pleasant warmth spreading through you. It’s so  _different_  to kissing James. With James it’s a crazy kind of passion, his kisses always consuming you with burning desire. But Vanessa, her lips move effortlessly against yours. Her curves flush with yours. The pleasure mounting slowly.

“You’re such a good kisser, Vanessa,” you murmur. “So sweet.”

Vanessa purrs when your hand ghosts down her body. Fingers circling over the tattoo just under her collarbone. Her skin’s hot, you can feel it through her dress and you’re no longer cautious. She parts her lips eagerly, your tongue slipping past and teasing hers in a way that has you both moaning. Your head spins, mind blanking with desire. Desire that spurs you to slide your hands over her breasts. She’s arching into your touch. Whines and whimpers both fuelling your own want. Fingers toy with the hem of her top. A whine, more of a plea. It lands at her feet.

A red flush colours James’ neck, disappearing beyond the collar of his polo. Fire dances in his eyes, his jaw clenched in a hard line. It’s exciting, eliciting an almost animalistic response from you. A trail of kisses down Vanessa’s neck, your fingers tugging at the zip of her skirt. There’s a sudden urgency about you now. You’re so turned on you’ve lost all rational thought. Careless to the fact that you’re in a club, undressing a beautiful woman in front of her boyfriend and James.

 _James_. Unabashed heat in his eyes and you’re  _throbbing_. Itching to be released from the confines of your dress. A knowing look from Vanessa and she’s unzipping the offending material. Her fingertips have your nerves singing as she slides the sleeves down and your entire body hums. Naked, save for a pair of silk panties. Vanessa is given a mere moment to drink you in before you’re pulling her in for another kiss. You swallow her gasp, you’re so  _wet_ , so  _desperate_  for  _her_ , for  _James_ , even for  _Wade_.

And despite that, it’s still somehow uniquely  _sensual_. The way her bare skin trembles at your touch. Her breasts grazing yours, nipples hardening into small peaks and you swallow Vanessa’s moan when you roll one between your fingers. You’re possessed, fuelled by heady need. Her fingers dance down your back, every inch of skin she touches alight. Fingers dip just under the waistband of your panties and she tugs you impossibly close, a faint whine low in your throat.

It’s  _unbelievable_. Your eyes fly to the darkened glass, briefly stolen by the idea that anyone could be watching. And somehow, some sordid little part of you is undoubtedly  _excited_  by the prospect.

Giggles and gasps ripple through the air when her back hits the couch. You straddle her, panties cast aside. An elated sigh, she can feel you’re just as  _wet_  as she is. Her head in Wade’s lap, dark hair fanned around her almost angelically and it’s ironic because you’ve never felt so  _sinful_. Lips swollen from your kisses, eyes wild and pupils dilated. And still, you have a burning desire to ravish her.

“You’re so pretty like this, Vanessa.”

A quiet voice that’s thick with lust. Vanessa bucks her hips up as you settle between her parted thighs. Kisses, hot, open-mouthed ones feathered up the inside of her thigh. She’s palming at Wade, fingers deftly unbuttoning his pants and his husky voice drifts through the air. You’re immune to all but the blood pumping in your ears. His hand drifts down her body, thumbs sweeping over her nipples. Her resounding mewl is muffled as she mouths at the front of Wade’s underwear. You’re dangerously close to overheating, arousal dripping down your thighs.

James shifts in his seat, empty glass clutched so tight his knuckles have whitened. You smirk in his direction, mind a haze and then you dip your head. Your first taste of Vanessa. She’s so  _wet_ , all from a few kisses and lingering touches. You run your tongue along her wet folds. Begs and pleas, she’s too far gone to withstand your teasing. Obliging, you giggle and bury your face in her wet heat.

A hand in your hair, her moans uncontrollable. She grinds her hips against your mouth, her own lips wrapped around Wade’s cock as he pinches her nipples. Your walls flutter around nothing, craving any kind of friction but you don’t let up. You’re too far gone yourself, lapping at Vanessa’s wetness with renewed fervour. You know  _exactly_  what drives you crazy, and she seems to like it too. Every flick of your tongue arches her back, driving her closer and closer to her peak. A moan escapes you, drowned out by the slick sound of your fingers gliding in and out of her core. A curl that drags them over that sweet spot and she cries out your name, body writhing as her orgasm crashes through her.

A salacious grin, the giddiness in your eyes mirrored in hers when you raise your fingers, sucking the sweet taste of her from them. You’re hovering over her, breasts dragging against hers, lips dangerously close once more. A disappointed whine when you pull away at the very last second, crashing your lips down on Wade’s and he  _groans_  at the taste of his girlfriend on your tongue. His kiss is nothing short of seductive, a man who knows how to use his mouth. You’re in a perfect position, breasts hanging invitingly over Vanessa’s face. With not so much as a warning, she flicks her tongue over a nipple and Wade swallows your gasp. He licks his lips when you break apart for air. Ragged pants heavy in the thick air.

Mind drowning with lust. A brief moment of concern when you remember James. Disbelief, because this  _certainly_  isn’t how you imagined tonight would end. But you’re too turned on and frustrated to care. Inhibitions, they simply don’t exist. You want to be  _devoured_ ,  _ravished_. Apparently, so do the other three people in the room.

“The fuck you waiting for, man?” says Wade, eyes trained on James. “Get over here.”

James needn’t be told twice. He’s across the room in three strides. Erection straining his dark jeans. Eyes blown wide with a look that can only be described as  _predatory_. Fingers inch up his chest, dragging the soft cotton and he throws it aside with haste. You bite back a moan at his bared chest. Hot and covered in a glistening sheen of sweat already. The soft trail of hair under his navel sticking to his skin. Nails lightly rake over the muscles, they clench beautifully and you rise to your knees.

A primal growl graces your ears and James’ kiss is bruising. Demanding, possessive,  _needy_. It’s utterly  _filthy_ , his mouth open and all but devouring you as his hands cup your face. Beard scratching but it sends a  _delicious_  thrill to your core. A sharp bite at your bottom lip, a gasp wrenched from your throat when he sucks at it harshly. A wolfish expression when you free yourself from his grip and kiss your way down his chest. A hiss of relief when you tug down his jeans and underwear. Your whole body hums, his cock lightly slapping his abdomen. He’s so  _hard_ , the tip dripping with precome and flushed an angry red.

“Shit,” swears Wade, and James’ eyes snap open. “Your cock’s as pretty as you, man.”

A collective giggle from you and Vanessa. Heart racing, you settle back. She scatters enticing kisses down the column of your neck. A wicked smile on Wade’s face. An equally cheeky grin from James. Your attention diverted. A resounding moan because James yanks Wade into a kiss that’s not at all sweet or tentative. Rough and sloppy. Hot and  _insistent_. James’ hands on Wade’s waist. Sinfully loud groans of delight when their cocks rub together. It’s indescribably  _hot_. You’re aroused to the point you’re going  _crazy_.

A whimper, you’re purring when James pulls away from Wade and runs his thumb along your bottom lip. You nip at it, drawing his thumb into your mouth and sucking softly enough to earn a moan. Thumb dragging down your neck, chest, brushing over a nipple and leaving a wet trail in its wake. You almost forget you’re not alone. A bite of his lip, a devilish smirk designed to make you  _gush_. James is as close to losing it as you, cock hard and leaking against his stomach.

Wordlessly, driven by raw sex, you lean forward and run your tongue along his hard length. James eases out a sharp gasp. Fingers wrapped around the base. You run your tongue over the tip, your whole body keening at the salty taste of him. No words, not even so much as a curse or filthy command of “ _suck my cock, princess_ ”. Uncharacteristic, but in some small way, it’s maddeningly  _hot_  because he’s at  _your_  mercy. A sharp slap rings through the air, James jerking as Wade erupts in a fit of chuckles, drawing his hand back from James’ backside.

“Asshole.” mutters James.

“Don’t tempt me, pretty boy.”

A teasing jibe. A ripple of quiet amusement. James changes the mood instantly with a wolfish grin. His hand wraps around Wade’s cock, moving it up and down in long, slow strokes. Wade groans shamelessly, lower lip trapped between his teeth. It’s the most  _erotic_  thing you’ve ever seen and you moan around James’ length. A curse flies from his lips and his eyes dart back in time to watch Vanessa pepper kisses over his hip bone. A thoroughly wrecked look in his eyes, he’s breathing shakily as she runs her tongue along his balls.

It’s unbearably  _hot_ , your skin  _scorching_  because James has his head tilted back in utter pleasure, half-lidded eyes struggling to remain open and watch both you  _and_  her driving him close to oblivion. A shocked moan as he shudders, the plethora of sensations wreaking utter havoc. Vanessa is as slow and gentle as you are fast and rough, the thick, velvety weight of his cock in your mouth making you want to come right there and then.

A tilt of his hips pushes his cock further into your mouth. A moan that vibrates around his length and a giggle from Vanessa as she eases off. The couch shifts as she pulls Wade down, her straddling him a hot vision in the corner of your eye. A string of curses, huskily gasped. Satisfied mewls, breathless all the same. And yet, you can still hear just how  _wet_  you are. James fingers slipping down your body, brushing over your clit and your moan couples with when he sinks two fingers in. You’re  _throbbing_ , pulsating enough that James growls  _primally_  and you gasp something lewd as he roughs you around.

It’s with twisted fascination that you find yourself kneeling on the couch. Eyes wide as you watch Vanessa ride Wade with reckless abandon. Leather hot under you, James’ chest sticky with sweat and pressed to your back. You’re shaking, nearly to the point of tears because you’re  _unbearably_  aroused.  _Excited_. Bucking against James but his hands have a vice like grip, holding you in place and you sob as he finally enters you. Lips graze your ear and there’s nothing left of your patience to suppress a shudder.

“ _Watch_   _them_ , princess.”

It’s absolutely  _insane_. You’re  _drenched_ , wetness coating James’ cock and slicking your thighs. It’s nothing short of exquisite  _torture_. The feeling of being so  _full_ , the head of his thick cock nudging  _exactly_  where you need it but still, he doesn’t move. No, his breath is hot on your neck. His fingers gripping you almost punishingly. It’s  _illicit_ , forbidden but you’re drawn to the way Wade’s long length disappears with every roll of Vanessa’s hips. Her fingers trace the divots of his muscles. His hands cup her breasts. The tattoo on her tummy stretched taut when she arches her back.

“You’re so  _wet_ , princess,” drawls James, that rough side of him returning for your ears only. “Fuck, you’re drippin’ all over my cock. You love this, don’t you? Such a dirty little girl. Don’t worry, princess. They’ll get to watch me fuck you, too.”

Another desperate sob that makes James growl. You need Vanessa to come, you’re straddling the line between pain and pleasure, veering close to the edge from James’ dirty words. Sheer heat that sets your whole body aflame, Vanessa coming undone with a scream and Wade gasping against her lips as he follows her into ecstasy. It’s obscene.

A squeak when you find yourself on your back. James hovers over you, cock brushing teasingly over your clit. He takes himself in his hand, and it’s both exquisite satisfaction and sheer agony, the drag of his tip from your clit to your entrance. A wolfish glint in his eyes, as if he’s ready to devour you. And despite Wade and Vanessa’s imminent presence, the world seems to melt away until it’s just you and James.

A searing kiss that renders you breathless. A gasp that James swallows. The scruff of his beard scratching as your mouth falls open, helpless but to let him kiss you as  _he_  pleases. You both moan as he slides into your heat. A hard, smooth thrust that has him growling in satisfaction. You clench around him so tightly he’s already coming apart at the seams. It’s fast,  _frenzied_ , his hips snapping against yours wetly. Moans mingling in the air. Your fingers curled into his hair, yanking harshly and it only spurs him further.

“Gonna come for me, princess?” a husky voice that’s low, his words meant for your ears only. “ _Fuck_ , I can feel how close you are.”

Desperate pleas tumble from your lips. Whispered urgency. Core tightening impossibly.

“It turns you on, doesn’t it? Knowin’ they’re watching. They can watch all they want, princess, but you’re fuckin’  _mine_  to take.”

James’ name is the only word on your lips. Every punishing thrust of his hips bringing you closer and closer to the edge. His hand slips low and you cry out as he circles your clit. Blackened eyes burn hotly as they bore into yours, all you see is the filthy, rough side to James you’re so addicted to.

A choked out gasp is all the warning you’re capable of because it’s all too much. You’re in a  _club_. With a couple you  _barely_   _know_. James’ cock so deep you’re stretched taut. It’s overwhelming and you surrender. Mouth open in a silent scream, walls squeezing James’ cock as he fucks you through it. Euphoria. Sheer, agonising  _bliss_  that consumes you. You’ve never felt pleasure so intense and you let it ravage you as James stutters in short, shallow thrusts, growling into the sweat-slicked skin of your neck. And  _God_ , feeling him come inside you is almost as exciting as your own high.

A little bubble that belongs to you and him. Sweet praises of “ _such a good girl_ ” and “ _feel so good coming all over my cock_ ” murmured in your ear. The warmth of his release flooding you. You’re lightheaded, floating. His salty, musky scent intoxicating. It’s burst, your bubble, when Wade’s filters through the air that’s still thick with sex.

“Damn, you two fuck almost as good as we do.”

* * *

 

The room still spins, Bucky’s head a pleasant fog as he slides up the zipper of his jeans. Chest still slick with sweat, scattered with a few red marks left by your nails. He feels drunk, but not from the alcohol. No, from  _you_. A glance over his shoulder reveals your perch on the leather couch, lazily kissing Vanessa and Bucky’s helpless but to watch for a minute.

Occupied by what’s just transpired, a smile crosses his face. Perhaps you think it odd, how easily he consented to this when he’s shown such jealousy towards Tony Stark and Thor previously. He certainly wasn’t expecting tonight to turn out  _this_  way but he regrets nothing. He supposes it’s because of how much he trusts Wade and Vanessa. He might be unfamiliar with such…  _debauchery_  but they’re well versed. That, and they’re too far in love with each other. Vanessa would have Wade’s balls if he so much as entertained an unsavoury thought.

A sharp clap on Bucky’s shoulder brings him back to the moment. Tearing his eyes away from your half-nude and giggling from, he faces Wade who is pottering about in his jeans too, the button undone. A glass of tequila proffered and Bucky drains it in one gulp.

“Pretty sweet sugar baby you got yourself there,” jests Wade, a waggle of his eyebrows following. “She with you for your money or your dick?”

“You forgot my stellar ass.” replies Bucky dryly.

Wade bursts out in a series of guffaws and before he can be stopped, reaches out and slaps Bucky hard on the ass as if proving a point. Bucky promptly yelps, ass stinging uncomfortably so.

“No, but seriously, she know you see her as more than just pussy?”

“What?” blinks Bucky.

Despite the obscene nature of Wade’s words, his true meaning is plain and clear, bringing a faint flush of pink out on Bucky’s cheeks.

“Oh, come on, pretty boy,” grins Wade. “The tumour didn’t fuck up my brain  _that_  bad. I’m not  _blind_.”

No rebuttal. No argument forms in Bucky’s brain. A rabbit in headlights. Terrified that his emotions are all too obvious and written all over his face. His blush darkens as he hurriedly attempts to formulate some kind of reasoning but as always, Wade is too quick-witted.

“Just do me a favour and tell her. I think she’s giving my girlfriend funny ideas about running off into the sunset with her.”

Wade taps his finger on Bucky’s nose, making a small “ _boop_ ” noise. And then he’s left in his solitude, watching Wade sit beside Vanessa and curl an arm around her. A pang in Bucky’s heart. It takes him by surprise. He wants  _that_. He wants what they have. A relationship without any expectations. A thrilling adventure. Fun, sex, charm and wit. But more than anything, he wants all that with  _you_. And he’s scared  _shitless_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
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> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	16. Seize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor hosts a tea party. James has a present for you.
> 
> Smut Warnings: blindfold, breast play, dirty talk, edging, ice play, light bondage, light d/s themes, masturbation, oral sex, sex toy, squirting, semi-public sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. I am so thrilled you’re all enjoying this story! I hope you enjoy this next part.
> 
> As you can see, this story is coming to a close. There are two more chapters left. However, I will be writing one shots as part of the wider series as it were. Two that I have planned include James meeting the Reader's parents, and James and Loki have a moment. If you would like to request something, then please drop by my ask box Tumblr. There's a link in the End Notes.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

Perhaps a skill that artists and writers share is the ability to search for fine detail. A few white hairs in the corner of his chin. Another few just beginning to streak around his hairline. A subtle sweep of red over his high cheekbones. Barely visible freckles dotted randomly. Creases in the corner of his eyes, those are one of your favourite features of James. Although, why still remains a mystery.

You suppose it gives him the air of a refined, older man. They crinkle upwards with his smile. More prominent when he frowns, just as he’s doing now, steely blue eyes trained on the StarkPad in his hands. A powder white shirt half-tucked into his shorts, exposed forearms tanned, and his hair a fluffy mess. An invitation if you ever saw one. A sip of his espresso, small finger tucked under the cup. Yet another detail you’ve come to realise you favour.

One such detail that has presented itself since last night, is the uncharacteristic  _quietness_  that James displays. At first, you fretted that you had overstepped with Wade and Vanessa. But it seems unlikely. He seemed to  _enjoy_  it just as much as you did. Perhaps even more, if that’s at all possible. Even so, he’s somewhat reserved and noting the intense look of concentration on his face, you reason it has to do with the tea party of sorts that Thor is hosting in a couple of hours. Memories of last night still clouding your mind, an idea takes your fancy.

James has shifted, the sun formerly an angry glare on the screen of his StarkPad. He sits at an angle now. Back to you and facing the sea. It helps, a smirk tugging at your lips as you bend enough to wrap your arms around his chest. A hum of surprise when he feels your lips in the crook of his neck. The intoxicating scent of his cologne. Beard brushing your cheek with every kiss you leave on his skin. You can tell he’s smiling.

“Not paying you enough attention, huh?” teases James, and you giggle into his shoulder.

“No,” you tease back. “So I thought I’d just  _distract_  you instead.”

Slowly, you trail your fingers down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as you do. A nip at his ear as you run your fingers through the soft smattering of hair just under his collarbone. James groans quietly, StarkPad abandoned now.

“I got you a present.” you announce, reaching into the pocket of your robe.

“Babygirl, you’re not supposed to get me  _anything_. Not how this works, remember?”

James’ admonishment turns into a fit of laughter when you open your palm. The red pencil emblazoned with “I love Monaco”. He chuckles, turning his head to press a scruffy kiss to your cheek. A cock of his eyebrow upon noting the twinkle in your eyes. A heated kiss. You straighten up and move to stand in front of him.

“There is  _one_  more present,” you say coyly. “You see, I know you wanted me to buy bikinis but then I saw this and you  _did_  say to treat myself.”

James’ blue eyes sparkle like the sea behind you, following your fingers as they untie your robe. A sharp inhale, your skin warming from the intensity of his gaze. A pretty lace bra, peach in colour, the cups plunge dangerously low, held together by criss-crossing ribbons. Matching panties that equally test his resolve. Lingerie that’s soft prettiness but tastefully teasing. A rather apt description of you, really.

A plump pink lip pulled between his teeth. Darkened eyes despite the bright sunshine. A moment that fizzles with sex and then he’s parting his legs, not even bothering to look you in the eyes as he addresses you.

“Come here, princess.”

You shiver as he deftly slides the robe down your shoulders. Breath catching when it’s tossed aside. A large hand either side of your waist, the rough calluses that dot his fingers catching on lace as he hooks them in the waistband of your panties. A playful nip at your hip and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders before your knees buckle. James chuckles into your skin, peppering kisses over your belly that ignite your arousal.

It’s  _insane_ , just how crazy you are for him. How you can’t get enough. You’ve spent the best part of the week being fucked by him and yet, you still crave  _more_. And it’s not just the sex. Just  _being_  with him. You’ve never felt anything like it. It’s consuming and heady and you should stop but  _you don’t want to_. Not when he’s kissing his way down your body like his life depends on it.

“I like this present,” murmurs James, mouth grazing your thighs. “Do I get a thank you?”

“Thank you, sir.” you breathe out, innocently batting your lashes.

James chuckles, mouth drawing closer your core. The lace of your panties already growing damp.

“A  _proper_  thank you. C’mon princess, you can do better than that.”

A muffled groan from James when you lower yourself to your knees. You look up at him, languidly ridding him of his shorts and boxer briefs. Mouth watering because he’s already half-hard. A teasing lick over the tip. A run of your tongue over the vein along the underside. A gentle suck at his balls. James gasps, head thrown back and chest bearing a fine layer of sweat. You tease him, relishing the way his cock swells when you suck at the tip.

“C’mon,” he groans, more a command than a plea. “Suck my cock, princess. I know you want to.  _Fuck_ , you’re real good at it too. C’mon, wrap those pretty lips around my cock.”

You feel a wave of arousal between your legs at his words. The smirk he flashes your way telling you he knows exactly how much you love it when he’s filthy. You oblige, sucking him halfway into your mouth before drawing back and he growls.

“Don’t tease me,” he warns darkly. “I wanna see you take it all.”

Bracing your hands on his thighs, you offer a sweet smile. Tummy fluttering and clit throbbing at the deliciously dirty way he moans and grasps at your hair, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat. No longer willing to tease either, you bob your head, sucking his cock exactly as he orders you to, one hand cupping his balls. A succession of breathy swears tumble from his lips. Fingers tighten in your hair when you flick your tongue over the tip of his cock. He’s throbbing in your mouth and it makes you hum, the vibration eliciting a gasp of your name.

James is close, you’ve done this enough times to know. The faraway look in his eyes. The twitch of his cock. The deep pink flush spreading across his chest. You want him to come. You want him come undone for  _you_. You swirl your tongue over his length fervently, moaning at how smooth and hard he feels in your mouth. Dark eyes meet yours. And he  _comes_ , lips ajar, strong fingers still clenched in your hair as he spills down your throat. It’s undeniably arousing, his low gasp and God, you’re so wet, drawing back and licking your lips.

A grin that’s rife with mischief and pride is what greets him when he finally opens his eyes. Another roaming gaze as he pulls you to your feet. A disappointed pout when he tugs his shorts back on, but it doesn’t last long because there’s a devilish expression on his face. A slight dip of his head, one that makes his eyes smoulder.

James disappears inside. You take a few seconds to steady your breath. He returns shortly, sketchbook in his hands, a velvet Cartier case resting atop it. Both are placed on the table, his bare feet silent on the white marbled terrace. He stands so close his chest brushes your breasts and your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.

“Do you remember what I said yesterday?” his velvety voice, barely above a whisper.

“You… you said you wanted to draw me,” you whisper back, tummy fluttering. “In… just the necklace and earrings.”

“That’s right, princess,” he croons, spinning you round so he can clasp the diamond necklace. “I also said you’d get another present. You want that?”

You nod, enthusiastically so. Almost forgetting to breathe as you do because he presses a kiss beneath your ear. You’re  _burning_. Not because of the hot sun. Because of  _James_. Purring as he slides your lingerie off carefully. A hushed promise that he’ll fuck you wearing it before the week is up. Shaky fingers put the earrings on and then his hands are on your hips, guiding you to where he wants you.

Your whole body flushes as James settles back in his chair. Fingers gripping the ledge he has you leaning against. One leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. An artist’s eyes drinking you in but it doesn’t stop the moment from being erotic beyond belief. Your eyes dart to the terrace besides yours. It’s empty, but you think you detect the curtain fall back into place. James does too, fire dancing in his eyes. Another throb between your legs. No matter filthy it is, the way he displays you so possessively, never fails to excite you. Almost as if he’s taunting everyone around you. Making them want what he has.  _You_.

What seems like an age passes. Heat engulfing you, slick coating your thighs. You tremble with need, desperate for him to take you there and then, audience or not. You’re lost to your desperation now, almost sighing with relief as his sketchbook is set aside. The smell of the salty sea lingers in the air. Birds chirping. You tune it out, focused solely on the handsome man sitting before you. That fierce gaze once more. You almost moan aloud.

“Touch yourself.”

You blink.

“I said,  _touch_   _yourself_.”

James relaxes in his seat. Head tilted to one side as you obediently drag your fingers down your neck. A fleeting trail over your breasts. Quivering at a sensitive spot on your sides. He has you do it again, refusing anything but a teasing touch. You’d prefer his hands, or better yet, his mouth. But your desire has begun to fog your rationality. You’re far too desperate for any kind of friction right now.

The ghost of your thumbs along the underside of your breasts. Slow circles, the pads of your fingertips everywhere but your nipples and it’s exquisite  _torture_. You whine, and he relents. A lick of his lips when you moan unabashedly. He can see how  _soaked_  you are, but he’s in no hurry. He’s silent, tells you nothing else. And despite the ache between your legs, you continue to tease yourself. Only when you cry out a beg does he straighten up and your heart leaps with anticipation.

But James doesn’t move. No, he remains seated and it’s  _agonising_. Gruff words that have you rolling your clit between your fingers. Circling faster and faster. Walls clenching around nothing. You close your eyes, imagining it’s him. Imagining it’s  _James_  working you to your release. You’re so close and you’re so desperate. You rub faster, harsher. The coil in your belly about to snap.

“Stop.”

Your eyes snap open. A look that screams of disbelief but it only earns you a devilish chuckle. Instinctively, you circle your clit again and James growls wolfishly. Blue eyes flash with danger. It’s of little help, only fuelling your arousal impossibly further.

“I said,  _stop_.”

Large fingers enclose around your wrist. The faintest of touches against your hot skin. You whine, a pleading look in your eyes that he drinks in only too happily.

“You wanna come, princess? Want me to make you come?”

A moan is the only reply you’re capable of. He responds with a trail of kisses down your neck.

“Later.”

It’s harsh. Rough. A promise nonetheless. One you’re  _stubbornly_  unhappy with. His grip tightens on your wrist. Breath hot on your ear as your body threatens to go up in flames.

“Be a good girl and I’ll make you come so hard I’ll ruin you for other men,” he growls, a vein in his cheek ticking. “And don’t forget about that present.”

“You keep promising this present,” you huff. “I’m starting to think it’s rubbish.”

You squeak when he whirls you around, the metal ledge digging into your hips and his cock hard against your ass.

“Keep acting like a brat, princess, and I won’t let you come at all,” he all but snarls, rendering you breathless. “Now go get dressed. And don’t you  _dare_  touch yourself in the shower.”

* * *

 

Monaco beams under the sun. It’s the hottest day of the week so far. Warmth seeps through the navy blue suit, forcing Bucky into undoing the second button of his cornflower blue shirt. Smart but casual, without the addition of the tie. A pair of Hugo Boss sunglasses to shield his eyes. The roar of the Ferrari echoes as he zooms through the streets.

Every so often, his eyes dart to you. A smile that’s bitten back, only just. With your arms folded and your bottom lip jutting out, Bucky’s never seen you so  _grumpy_. Not without good reason, of course. He knows of your sheer desperation. How utterly  _frustrated_  he’s left you. But he’ll do good on his promise. The promise he blurted out before he could help himself.

_“Be a good girl and I’ll make you come so hard I’ll ruin you for other men.”_

Bucky isn’t entirely certain what possessed him to say such a thing.  _Other_   _men_? He chides himself, face hot with embarrassment. He thinks you chalked it off as the heat of the moment. At least, he  _hopes_  you have, considering that you’ve been teasing him mercilessly ever since. 

You waited until he needed to brush his teeth to take a shower, soaping yourself sensually for him to see in the mirror. You did your make-up in just those lacy, peach coloured panties, accidentally spilling a drop of moisturiser on your naked breasts. You waited until the last possible minute to wear your dress, sashaying around the suite in your panties and heels, bending over to pick up imaginary lint from the floor.

Bucky has to admit, you are one determined woman. And it makes you even more attractive than you already are. He’s hot and bothered just  _thinking_  about it. If he didn’t have plans for you tonight, he would have fucked you out on that damned terrace for everyone to see.

Thor’s villa looms majestically. A luxurious residence that is just far from Monte Carlo enough to be away from the hustle and bustle of tourists. An undisturbed view of the sea, it looks down over most of Monaco as if perched on a throne. A decently sized garden and a rooftop pool. Bucky’s rather delighted to see the awe that briefly glimmers in your eyes.

A pretty pink dress delicately embroidered with a jacquard pattern in rose gold. The fitted bodice sits perfectly, spaghetti straps draped over your shoulders. A full skirt with a dropped hem at the back, asymmetric at the front. You ruffle it gently, the metallic embroidery catching the sunlight. You’ve paired it with a pair of matching shoes, rose gold in colour and with a neat row of crystal beads that form the stem of the high heel. The ideal accompaniment to the diamond necklace and earrings.

Bucky momentarily forgets where he is, too taken by your beauty. You’re  _stunning_. Prettier than any picture he could ever paint. Your scowl alerts him of the present and he can’t help but grin. You huff, chin high in the air. He knows your act will last only as long as you’re solely in his company.

“You’re taking the lead today.”

Bucky’s smile is genuine. But you whirl around to stare at him. A few rapid blinks, as if you’ve misunderstood. Your eyes swim with the memories of your first night in Monaco. Dinner with Thor.

“I trust you.”

Quietly spoken words, you soften visibly. A proffered arm that you accept, hand nestling in the crook of his elbow. The rest of the day seemingly forgotten, he can’t ignore the way his heart’s racing. Not when you’re so close he’s cocooned in the sweet smell of your perfume. The urge to kiss you takes him by surprise. Because it’s not sexual in the slightest. He wants to kiss you because he  _likes_  the feel of your lips against his. He  _likes_  the way you smile into a kiss. He  _likes_  the way kissing you makes him feel. Bucky doesn’t hesitate to snatch up the first glass of champagne that comes him way. It’s down the hatchet in one go.

* * *

 

A strangeness has overcome James again. Not nearly as good as disguising it as he believes himself to be, you sip your champagne daintily. The garden is a rarity for a property in Monaco. You’re informed Thor bought the adjoining land to the villa and constructed it himself. Leafy trees and lush greenery. Exotic flowers and an ornamental fountain with an intricate sculpture of Norse mythology in the centre. Winding pathways and butterflies floating in the air. A few tables have been arranged on the decking, they groan under the weight of canapés and wine. Your frustration is suddenly miles away.

“Finally! I was beginning to think I would have to send out a search party!”

Thor’s voice booms in your ears as he approaches. A genial handshake with James and kisses to both your cheeks. A beckon of his meaty paw, a fresh glass of champagne is pressed into your palm. You glance at James, but his eyes make it clear he meant what he said earlier. The lead is yours to take.

“You have a beautiful home.”

Your compliment is nothing short of sincere. You’ve attended similar soirées of your father’s friends. This, however, is a new level of indulgence altogether. A tour, one where you find your hand wrapped around Thor’s thick bicep. James says nothing, but you notice his displeasure all the same. You breathe freely once you’re back in the garden, both hands clutching James by the arm. It’s not that you dislike Thor. A perfectly amiable man, one you’re sucking up to. You simply… have a  _preference_  for James. Even if you are currently frustrated by him.

The tea party is an arduous affair. The guests a combination of family, friends, business acquaintances and colleagues. Ward Meachum, his forced smile sullen as he boredly shakes James’ hand and practically ignores your presence. Alexandra Reid, matronly but friendly as she raises her eyebrows inquisitively at James. He shrugs, making a face that has her laughing. You suspect it has something to do with you, but you don’t press the matter. Dr. Erik Selvig, who’s had one glass too many of brandy. He spouts raptures of thermonuclear astrophysics at your breasts. You accidentally stumble and spill the contents of your champagne flute down his trousers. He grumbles and stalks off, James hiding his enormous grin behind his hand.

If Thor suspects foul play, he says little of it. A beaming smile as he thrusts a bottle and two empty flutes at James. A cheeky smirk is tossed in your direction, his audible whisper carrying as he suggests to James that he take a turn around the hedge maze with you.

“I think Thor’s pretty impressed with you,” says James, as you walk through the looping paths marked by hedges. “I am too.”

“He’s impressed with you too,” you smile, finding a tree in the middle of the maze. “You’re not as…  _overbearing_  as you were on Monday night.”

James nudges you playfully and you laugh, taking the flute of champagne from him. A small clink, lazy sips. The champagne cool in the hot weather. You lean against the tree trunk, closing your eyes and basking in the setting sun. It’s beautiful here. A little pocket of serenity. Although, James tends to have that effect on you. You’re blinded by him. And here in the heart of Monaco, you plan to let it stay that way. At least for another of couple of days.

Warmth. Heat radiating off James as he stands in front of you. The return of a hungry look in his eyes. A few petals dance through the air. A pink one landing in his fluffy hair. The ocean raging in his eyes catches you by surprise.

“I never did tell you how pretty you look, princess.”

“James…”

“Ssh, there’s no-one here but us.”

James swallows your gasp, lips crashing down on yours. A leg between yours, thigh grinding against your core. Your empty flute falls from your hand, landing on the grass with a soft thump. Fingers reach for him, nails biting through the fabric of his suit. Your body slots neatly with his, almost too perfectly. His hard muscles against your soft curves. Tongue teasing yours enough to coax quiet moans. A nip at your bottom lip has you seeing  _stars_.

The faintest trickle of chatter, but the tea party seems a world away. The bark of the tree scratches at you uncomfortably, but it’s the least of your concerns. You’ll let your dress be torn to shreds before you let something so trivial stop you.

A shaky pant of James’ name as he tugs the straps of your dress down your arms. The air thickens rapidly. The deep rumble of his groan. Desire hot between your legs. A hand skims up your thigh. Wet kisses over your bared breasts. You rock your hips against his, arousal mounting once more. The desperation from earlier rears, threatening to consume you. You don’t think you can wait a moment longer. You wouldn’t survive it.

“James,  _please_ , I need you  _now_.”

Whatever game he’s playing, it’s tearing away at his resolve just as equally. An insatiable greed in his eyes. Pink lips wet and swollen. Another rock of your hips has him groaning. The look of a man who wants to fuck you right now.

“Bucky? Y/N?”

James swears colourfully. A flurry of hands as your dress is set straight and his suit smoothed back into place. A few stray leaves plucked from your hair. You’re tucking your straps back into place as Thor appears around the corner. A smile of pure  _evil_. It’s a wonder he isn’t cackling. A show of feigned innocence, as if  _he_  isn’t the one who sent you into the labyrinth with champagne and lewd ideas. His fiancée, Dr. Jane Foster, has finally arrived and he wishes to introduce you. A glance over his broad shoulders.

“Are you both going to come?”

* * *

 

A fog of lust. You stumble through it. James leads the way. Every nerve in your body singing from the mere feel of his fingers entwined with yours. Friday’s Irish accent muffled by the roaring of blood in your ears. The door closes behind you. A hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up until your eyes meet his. A whisper of your name. His thumb runs along your lower lip and you draw it in your mouth, sucking and swirling your tongue over the tip. The groan that echoes around the suite is a jolt to your core.

“Strip. Everything off,” he murmurs, voice thick with sex as he trails a finger along your necklace. “I want you on the bed.”

It’s as if you’re floating, drifting through the suite with your feet barely touching the ground. Your dress thrown over the back of a chair. Jewellery back in its black velvet case. Shoes under the desk. The white silk sheets of the bed are a welcome coolness. You suspect they won’t remain that way for much longer.

You’re on edge. You have been  _all_   _day_. Desire coursing through your veins. Overwhelming you. Driven by nothing but the ache between your legs. The ache that only  _James_  can quell. You’ve been desperate for him before, but this, this is  _maddening_. You yearn for his skin on yours, mouth claiming yours as he fills you with his cock. Fantasies of him flit through your mind. Just as you wonder where he is, the bed dips under his weight.

Jaw clenched, as if he’s holding back and you shift your hips, a signal that you need him, you need him  _now_. And then you notice it. The silk ties wound between his fingers. One black. One blue. Easing out a shaky breath, you know what’s to come and you eagerly consent. A firm kind of gentleness, trusting but rough. You let him guide your arms above your head, the blue tie binding your wrists together. The black tie slides over your eyes, the image of heat blazing in James’ eyes seared into your memory.

You’re  _unbearably_  aroused. Body trembling with anticipation. Everything suddenly feels so  _heightened_. You’re helpless. Vulnerable. Completely at his mercy. It’s utterly  _sinful_. The feel of his lips on your ear and already, your back arches off the bed.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, voice unwavering. “You’ll tell me if you want to stop?”

You whine in answer but he makes no effort to move.

“I need to hear you say it, babygirl. You need to tell me this is okay.”

“ _Yes_ ,” you gasp out. “ _Yes_ , James, this is okay.  _Please_ , just make me come.  _God_ , I can’t wait anymore!”

“Please, what?” he asks, voice suddenly rough.

“Please,  _sir_.”

A murmur of “ _good girl_ ” and he’s gone, leaving behind only the waft of his musky cologne and the ghost of his touch. Desperation takes hold of you again. You fight the urge to struggle against your restraints. Skin prickling hot under his gaze, you sense he’s right there. You can picture it clearly, picture him standing by the bed as he drinks you in. Naked, tied up, blindfolded. Laid out just for him. The thought sends a shiver down your spine.

“You look so pretty like this, princess,” he drawls. “All spread out for me.”

A soft flump you know to be his suit jacket hitting the floor. You tilt your head towards the sound.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day. Since you sucked my cock out on the terrace.”

Another flump, his pants this time. You swallow the lump in your throat. Hot anticipation coils in your belly.

“Such a good girl for me, princess.”

“You said you would make me come.”

The words fall from your lips before you even register them. Your blatant enthusiasm makes James chuckle darkly.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” he muses, a lone finger running up the length of your leg. “I also told you I had a present for you. You were pretty  _bratty_  about it, even though I asked you to be good.”

Your hips jerk off the sheets, the rough pad of his finger gliding over your clit and you’re  _throbbing_. Desperate to come but just as keen to see what he’s going to do to you.

“So you’re just gonna have to wait.”

A whine of displeasure echoes around the bedroom. Footsteps growing fainter as he leaves to answer the knock. Friday’s voice. The curt snap of a door. Soft clinks as he approaches. The bed dips again. You’re given no warning. And then you’re arching off the bed, squealing as coldness bites at your neck.

 _Ice_. James has an ice cube clenched between his teeth. It’s so cold against his hot lips. Nipples pebbling into hard peaks as he drags it over your breasts. You writhe, wrists flying off the mattress but you’re pinned down instantly, immobile as cold droplets rain over your skin. No sooner does it melt does James reach for another. For a moment, you think he’s about to go lower. The one place you crave him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he draws circles over your breasts. Hellbent on driving you  _crazy_. It’s freezing cold but  _God_ , you’ve never felt hotter.

James’ name comes out as a cry. The coldness replace by his hot mouth. Tongue lapping at the trails of water left behind. A nipple tugged between his teeth, he sucks harshly enough to wrench another cry. Your fingers have curled into fists. Never have you wanted to feel him so  _badly_. Your blindfold is just as much of a bother. You want to  _see_  him. You want to see the pleasure he’s wreaking on you.

“James? Sir,  _please_. I want to touch you.”

“No, I don’t think so, princess.”

A groan of displeasure, it’s drowned out by a scream that tears from your throat. James presses a cube of ice to your clit. The heat from your core melting it almost instantly. Your head’s spinning.  _Dizzying_.

“ _Fuck_ , princess, you’re  _dripping_.”

The delight in his tone is predatory. Unabashed awe. Filthy words mumbled into the skin of your neck. The burn of his beard as he heatedly leaves kisses there. The simplest of touches, yes, but they have you keening. A twist of your neck. He ignores your invitation, slowing down just when you thought you had him worked out.

A languid kiss under your ear. Another in the crook of your neck. An almost sweet kiss on your collarbone. One more at your hip. He kisses his way down your body and it’s painstakingly  _slow_. Every peck of his lips punctuated by praises of how beautiful you are, how perfect you are, how he’s going to fucking  _ruin_  you. There’s a ragged edge to his words, an urgency about them. And even so, he takes his time. Kissing down to your ankles before working a trail back up to your neck.

A mess of moans and breathlessness. The air in the room  _suffocatingly_  hot. The sheets are embarrassingly wet beneath you, more to do with your arousal than the ice. It’s sheer  _torture_ , that’s what it is. Your pleas rise in volume and still, he continues to tease you. His mouth moves up and down your body at a leisurely pace until you’re trembling, no longer conscious of anything but your desire.

“ _Please_ , sir,” you cry out, shaking with need. “I can’t- you need to-  _please_!”

“So fucking desperate aren’t you?” he says, charming and smooth as if he’s not as turned on as you are. “So desperate for me to fuck this tight little pussy. You want that, princess? Want me to fill you up my cock?”

A string of broken chants.  _Yes, James. Yes, sir. Please, sir. Please fuck me._

“Look at you. All wet and begging for my cock.  _Fuck_ , you don’t know what that does to me princess.”

You could come from his words alone. Treading the fine line that separates you from ecstasy. It’s borderline  _painful_ , in the most pleasurable of ways. The kind that only James is capable of exacting.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you my cock,” he promises, and if you weren’t blindfolded you’d be able to see the ravenous look in his eyes. “But, first, you can have your present.”

James’ words rip through your heady lust. A whine at the loss of his touch but he returns soon enough. You mewl at the feel of his fingers brushing your wet folds. Your whole body thrums at the lightest of touches because it’s  _him_. Something unyielding presses against your clit. You rock your hips involuntarily. Cold, but not ice. A hum from him that can only be described as wolfish. You feel the glide of his fingers and then there’s an unmistakable  _buzz_.

A groan that’s the filthiest you’ve heard yet. You writhe uncontrollably, chasing the buzzing sensation and shying away from it in equal measure. You want to come so badly. But you’ve been denied for so long you worry it’s too much.

“You like that, princess? Fuck, how are you so wet? Can’t wait to feel that tight pussy around my cock.”

James displays not so much as an ounce of mercy. The buzzing is  _relentless_. Your walls fluttering dangerously. You’re so  _close_. Right there. And it’s  _cruel_  the way James stops, harshly pulling away as you cry out desperately.

A pause, punctuated only by your pleas. Whole body flushing hot. A salacious chuckle from James. The fleeting thought that he’ll switch the vibrator back on. But with your eyes blindfolded you can’t see the dip of his head. The flick of his tongue against your clit. You suck in harsh lungful of air. You’re  _searing_  hot, any semblance of inhibitions long gone.

“So damn sweet. I could do this all night. Make you come with just my mouth.”

James groans, his beard burning your sensitive folds. And still, you want  _more_. A nip at your inner thigh. A circle of his tongue over your clit. Two fingers gliding in and out of your core. You feel it all so intensely, your inability to do little but let James do with you as he pleases only making you burning hotter.

“ _James_!”

Another orgasm that’s all but cruelly snatched from you. Tears pricking at your eyes. Protests that go unheard despite the hardness that’s insistent against your thigh. Precome trickles down your skin. James’ skin slick with sweat. Yet, he hasn’t had his fill of you yet. Stuttery breaths couple with filthy words. You’re brought to the brink again and  _again_. By his mouth. By the vibrator. By his hand. By the ice. It’s utterly  _depraved_.

You barely recognise your own voice. Coarse and rough as you sob at James to  _please, please, please_. The makeshift blindfold soaked with your tears. Thighs shaking. Skin so hot even  _he_  hisses. You tell him to  _stop_. It’s too much. You won’t survive it. The pleasure mounted to intolerable heights. Another cry that clamours at him to just  _stop_.

“Beg me, princess,” he growls, a possessive roughness you would normally enjoy. “ _Beg_  me for my cock.”

A shred of consciousness that somehow chokes out the words he wants to hear. The blindfold is torn from your eyes. A few precious seconds, you glimpse James’ blackened eyes. The intense dominance that’s no longer foreign. A strangled groan, it barely serves as a warning and James claims your mouth in a bruising kiss. You surrender to him. Mouth falling open, his lips hungrily seeking out yours. A hand fumbles between your bodies.

You moan in tandem. Your own voice is at an octave you’ve never heard before. James is loud, animalistically so, because the feel of his bare cock stretching you impossibly is  _exquisite_. He’s rough, hips bruising yours. He’s making good on his promise,  _ruining_  you for any other man. A ruthlessly fast pace, the slight tilt of your hips sending him so deep you  _scream_  his name. He takes you as he pleases, knowing you’re wound so tight you’ll snap any second.

“Come for me, princess,” he pants out, hips unforgiving as they slam into yours. “Scream my name. That’s it,  _fuck_ , c’mon, I know you’re close. Can feel you milking my cock.  _Fuck_ , come now.”

And despite how worked up you are, your orgasm takes you by surprise. A scream as you pulse around James’ cock, hips stuttering with every thrust and it’s all so intense you lose yourself. Wave upon wave of pleasure. The bliss you’ve been craving all day. It washes over you, consumes you and you let it. Brain blanking and vision blackening. You gush around his cock but barely realise it. You’re too far gone. Floating. Mindless. Carefree.

* * *

 

Bucky’s breathless. Weak from how blissed out he feels but he finds the strength to tend to you. Heart pounding at your feeble smile. He carries you to the spare room just as he did the other night. Clean sheets tucked around you. He’s never seen such a softness on your features before. Incomprehensible words mumbled into the pillow. Lidded eyes that droop with exhaustion. An expression on your face that mystifies him.

“James?”

“Yeah, babygirl?”

“I know we don’t cuddle,” you say, small sighs amidst your words. “But is it okay if you hold me? Just for a minute longer?”

There’s a dull ache that pierces his heart. He could never refuse you. Not even when his better judgement advises against him shuffling across the large bed and drawing you into his arms. A tender kiss pressed to the top of your head. A satisfied hum that makes his heart  _soar_. He lies awake in the darkness until your breath is slow with sleep. You’ll never know it, but he holds you all night long, only slinking away when he knows you’re beginning to stir in the morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	17. Dix-sept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You run into an old friend. James concludes business.
> 
> Smut Warnings: dirty talk, light d/s themes, rough sex, vaginal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves! Can you believe this is the penultimate chapter? Thank you so much for all your comments and kudos. You continuously show me so much kindness and I’m so grateful. Happy reading!
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

Ocean waves crashing against one another. Soft enough to be a pleasant sound first thing in the morning. Sunshine that trickles through the gap in the curtains. Slow breaths. The lingering scent of lily and honey. A distance. One that’s neither comfortable nor disagreeable. A distance necessitated by the nerves swirling in Bucky’s stomach.

You lie on your front. Hair perfectly messy and the white sheet barely covering you, draped in a way as if it’s an afterthought. A few streaks of sunlight over your shoulder. A hand straying into the distance Bucky’s put between you. His eyes dart over your fingers, a fleeting thought that perhaps you’re reaching out for him.

Sleep evades Bucky. A few pockets of slumber dotted through the night. But for the most part, he’s lain in bed, thoughts consumed by you. The memory of the dreamy look in your eyes. The soft murmur of your voice when you asked him to hold you. The pang in his heart when you nuzzled your face into his chest. He wonders when your arrangement turned into more than it should be. He struggles to pinpoint the exact moment he began falling for you. Is it possible for him to be in so deep without even realising it?

* * *

 

A sleepy hum that shatters his thoughts. The sheets rustle. A roll of your shoulders. A pretty smile that curves your lips up and Bucky feels his heart race once more as you blink owlishly.

“ _Bon matin_ ,” you whisper. “Awake before me? I suppose you really must have tired me out last night.”

Bucky grins. He can’t help himself. You’re giggling as you shuffle closer, the sheet falling when you straddle him. It’s instinct, the way his hands curve around your hips. Whatever shred of rationality remains snatched away by the feel of your lips along his jawline. Soft kisses. The scrape of your teeth along the shell of his ear. A groan, and his cock twitches.

“What about you, old man? You’re not worn out are you?”

Bucky opens his mouth to sass you back, but you choose that exact moment to bite down on his collarbone and his words are drowned out by a loud groan. A dig of his fingers into your hips. Lazy kisses peppered over his chest. He can feel lust beginning to fog his mind. Too enraptured with how delicate you feel atop him. The brush of your nipples. The warmth of your mouth. The wet arousal between your thighs.

You roll your hips, grinding down on him. His cock gliding through your wet folds. A teasing smirk on your lips. Pleasure pooling in your eyes. It’s a moment he commits to his memory. The slight sepia tone to the room. Your skin warm under his roaming hands. Hot, silky walls clenching around him. A brush of his thumb along your bottom lip and you draw it into your mouth, sucking wantonly enough to earn a growl.

Bucky watches you come undone, feels your slick coat his cock as you gasp his name and tremble. And that’s when he  _snaps_. A squeal and suddenly, he has you under him, the room unbearably hot once more. He pulls out, catching your gaze briefly, before slamming back in.

“ _James_!”

It’s hard enough to push you further up the bed. Bucky’s no longer thinking straight. The only thing he cares about is making you come again. Wrists pinned to the mattress. Bruising thrusts that fill his ears with your moans.

“Again, princess,” he demands, voice as coarse as his thrusts. “I know you got one more in you. You’re gonna come for me, you’re gonna come on my cock.”

Skin prickling with burning heat, he clenches his jaw as his hips collide with yours. There’s a dizziness reflected in your eyes, as if the only thing you’re capable of is succumbing to him. And  _God_ , there’s something about it that brings out a rough possessiveness in him. All those emotions from earlier swirling into this need to make you  _his_.

“You’re fuckin’  _mine_ , princess,” he growls in your ear. “ _Mine_  to take,  _mine_  to fuck.  _Mine_.”

Bucky barely recognises himself, driven by nothing but his desires. He’s close,  _desperate_  to come, but he won’t until you do. He grunts when the heels of your feet dig into his tailbone, your back arching off the bed as you come. It’s so  _hot_. Triggering something primal in him. Only just registering your mewls as he spills into you, groaning into the hot skin of your neck. It feels so  _right_ , so perfect, so  _addictive_. As if he could never get enough of you.

Bucky feels lightheaded, rolling off you and flopping back on to the messy bedsheets. His heart’s still racing, but it’s not from exertion. No, the realisation is dawning on him. What he’s just done. A satisfied hum from you and for once, he’s leaping out of bed with little attention in your direction, claiming he needs a shower.

Water, as cold as he can possibly handle. An icy wave that he hopes to wash away his emotions, his guilt, the sick stab low in his belly. The feeling that something dark looms. He quashes it as far as it will go. Bucky’s on autopilot. Stumbling through a shower, a change of clothes, breakfast. One too many espressos. He parks himself on the couch, StarkPad in his hands but he’s reread the same document about five times now, not a single word sticking.

“James?”

Your voice floats through the air, sounding faraway. He grunts in response.

“Are you worried about tonight?”

Bucky’s head jerks up, the couch dipping as you sit beside him. He notes the concern in your eyes, the soft smile on your lips. He nods. An easy lie.

“I know better than to tell you not to worry,” you say, squeezing his arm. “But, I still stand by what I said. Thor will sign on the dotted line tonight.”

Bucky smiles briefly. A short but curt nod, partly because he chooses to believe you. He’s come to realise how well-versed you are in business matters. Perhaps it’s your smarts that have him so ensnared? He quickly shakes the thought, brows furrowing at the screen.

“I still have to prepare though.”

“I know,” you say with a knowing smile. “I’m going to to the pool. We’ve been here all week and I’ve not even seen it.”

Bucky can hear you floating about the suite, gathering your things. And then you’re back beside him, asking if he’ll join you for lunch. At this point, there’s really nothing that he would deny you and it’s only when the door shuts that he lets out a breath he never realised he was holding in. Thor and the business deal seem a whole world away right now. You, you’re unshakable.

It’s pointless trying to deny his feelings. Especially when loving you is so  _easy_. You’re pretty, with smarts and wit to boot. There’s a harmony in whatever it is between you and him. A perpetual free-spiritedness, the calm and carelessness he’s never had the luxury of before. He’s living in a daydream of champagne and cigarettes, at the top of his career game and rediscovering his passion for art.

It confuses him, in all honesty. He doesn’t want a serious commitment to live out a future together, yet equally, he can’t  _stand_  the thought of you with anyone else. Nor can he see himself with anyone besides you at this moment in time. There are times when he wonders if you maybe feel the same about him. He’s seen little flickers in your eyes, emotions he can’t quite describe. A softened voice for his ears only. The pencil you bought him. But, then he remembers he is quite literally  _paying_  you. Of course you’re going to look at him dreamily when he’s buying you diamond necklaces and fucking you on luxury yachts.

It’s all too obvious that disappointment is written in Bucky’s future. Of that much he’s certain. Instead of doing the sensible thing of nipping your arrangement in the bud, he continues to torture himself. He lies to himself, promising to come clean when you get back to Paris. There’s no point jeopardising your last day in Monaco just because he’s silly enough to have  _feelings_.

Bucky sighs and rubs his temples wearily. A quick glance at his phone and he bolts up. He was supposed to have met you for lunch  _an_   _hour_   _ago_. A succession of missed calls and texts, the latest one telling him not to work too hard and to eat the room service you’ve ordered for him. As if on cue, Friday’s customary knock sounds on the door but he sends her away, rushing downstairs, weighed down by his guilt.

* * *

 

A circle of your finger around the rim of your glass. The second glass of wine you ordered after it’s become painfully clear that James won’t be joining you. You’re a little lightheaded. No doubt, you’ll regret the last text message you sent him. You can feel the dredges of embarrassment creeping in already. It was so  _sentimental_. James doesn’t need you to take care of him. Nor does he need you monopolising his time when he should be focusing on closing the deal tonight with Thor.

And as pathetic as it is, you find yourself filled with gloom. It feels as if James has stood you up. He hasn’t, not really. There’s no stipulation that demands he share lunch with you. You remind yourself that you have an  _arrangement_ , picking up the menu to peruse it once more. Even if you feel a little lost. James always orders for you. And you’ve grown to adore that.

“Now, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

A teasing drawl. One you’ve not heard in a long time but it still makes you smile all the same. You raise your head, meeting the twinkling eyes of a man you fell out of touch with quite some while ago.

“Brock Rumlow,” you smile, placing the menu down. “What in the world are you doing here?”

“Me?” he laughs. “What are  _you_  doing here? Last time I saw you, you were what? Twenty one and working in a bookshop.”

“And now I’m here in Monaco,” you say dreamily. “Perhaps I finally published that book.”

“No chance,” he guffaws good-naturedly. “I would’ve been the first to call and congratulate you.”

Laughter exchanged. A pleasant familiarity. Brock gestures at the empty chair opposite, politely asking if you would mind the company. A shake of your head and you say honestly you were about to order lunch. It’s over a plate of lemon and ricotta tart you fill each other in on your lives. You tell Brock that you finally made that move to Paris you always dreamed of. In turn, he tells you his security firm has expanded internationally. Old jokes resurfaced. The friendliness you’ve always held for one another making conversation flow easily.

“So, are you gonna tell me or what?” he grins, swirling the wine in his glass. “Who’s the guy?”

A series of blinks and narrowed eyes that he chortles at. To Brock’s credit, he’s always read you well. You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. That third of glass of wine and the fact that he’s your friend make the decision for you.

“James,” you say quietly. “His name is James.”

Brock wears a mischievous grin. Evidently aware there’s more to the story than you let on. You can feel heat blanketing your cheeks. James, the man who seems to occupy your every waking thought. The man who has  _no_   _clue_  that you’re head over heels for him. The man, so says Brock, who would be so lucky to know how you truly feel about him.

A shadow falls over your empty plate. The distinguished scent of Tom Ford that accompanies a possessive hand on your shoulder. A lingering kiss under your ear, scruffy beard scratching just so and you shiver.

“Hey, princess,” greets James in a husky voice before fixing Brock with a glare. “Who the hell are you?”

“James,” you introduce. “This is Brock Rumlow. Brock, this is James Barnes.”

“Oh,  _James_ ,” smirks Brock, intentionally rolling the name. “Nice to meet you, man.”

A handshake that is none too amicable. A tight grip on both their parts, as if they’re sizing one another up. Brock has a tendency to wind people up, somewhat purposefully although there’s no bad intention there. Nonetheless, you flash a warning look at him and he pouts, a reluctant agreement to behave. A waiter, upon sensing trouble brewing, bounds over with a chair for James and he throws himself down into it heavily.

“So,” he says with a tight-lipped smile. “How do you know this guy, princess?”

“Brock’s an old friend.”

Your answer is equally tight-lipped, little desire to take James’ bait. The implication hangs in the air of the hotel restaurant, loud and clear amidst the scrape of knives and forks. Brock is the older man you once mentioned. A tale that James had once fondly listened to, even teased you about with an air of cordiality. Now, it seems that tale is more of a horror story he’d rather forget. You change the subject abruptly, telling Brock that James is an accomplished lawyer.

“Good for you, man.” says Brock genially.

“What about you, Brett?” asks James with forced civility. “What is it you do?”

“Uh, it’s  _Brock_. I own a security- ”

“That’s nice. Princess, you want another drink?”

James is on the receiving end of a glare. One he pays no mind, simply smiling serenely and beckoning at a waiter. He orders you another glass of white wine, a whiskey for himself and then sends the waiter on the way, before feigning an apology for forgetting to ask “Bob”.  _Brock_ , to his credit, bears no ill will. He deems it no trouble, before looking between you and James.

“Are you both enjoying your vacation?”

A polite attempt at conversation. James gives you no opportunity to respond. He’s throwing back his whiskey and roaring with laughter.

“You mean when we actually make it out the hotel suite?” he smirks boastfully. “Well, let’s just I’m  _definitely_  gettin’ my money’s worth, if you know what I mean.”

The great irony of being a self-professed writer is that for once, you have no words to describe the feeling of your heart plummeting into your stomach. A painful stab that’s equal parts humiliation and sorrow. You feel dejected. And it’s all you can do to blink back the tears that threaten to fall. If James notices, he does an excellent job of hiding it. He’s leaning back in his chair, a masculine stance to establish dominance. Brock ignores him dutifully, eyes filled with pity. Pity that you don’t want or need. A loud scrape of your chair as you stand.

“I should be on my way,” you say flatly, voice quivering. “I need to get ready for later.”

A hurried goodbye with Brock. A promise to keep in touch this time. James’ eyes narrow unpleasantly but all that succeeds in doing is turning your sorrow into  _rage_. Your blood boils. Skin prickling with anger. Monaco seems so much colder. Less glamorous. The elevator ride to the suite uncharacteristically quiet. You stew in your fury. James remains unperturbed. A sidewards glance at you, but you wait for the curt snap of the suite door.

“What was that?”

Voice low with danger. James pats down his pockets, before triumphantly snatching up the packet of cigarettes sitting on the dining table.

“Huh?”

“Don’t play the fool, James. You  _humiliated_  me.”

“I  _am_  payin’ you,” he says calmly, opening the terrace door. “Or did you forget that?”

“I’m not embarrassed about our  _arrangement_. But it doesn’t give you the right to treat me like that. Especially in front of Brock- “

“It’s him, right?” interjects James, tucking a cigarette between his lips. “The older guy you slept with?”

“Even if he is, what does it matter? You’re acting like- “

The end of your sentence trails off into nothing. The rage-fuelled breathlessness dying away as something suddenly clicks. Enlightenment. It’s calm and it gives you a glimmer of hope because for just  _one_   _moment_ , Monaco is bright once more. There’s a chance that not all is lost.

James leans against the handrail. The amber flicker at the end of his cigarette. You study him for a moment. Breathlessness returning, for a very different reason.

“You’re acting like you’re  _jealous_.” you conclude in a whisper.

James’ eyes flash wickedly for the briefest of seconds. Your heart skips a beat. The sun is warm on your skin. Butterflies blossom in your tummy. This man, this handsome, charming man and there’s the prospect that he feels for you just as you do for him. Excitement shines in your eyes as you search his for confirmation.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” you breathe. “You’re  _jealous_.”

Silence, save for the roar of a Ferrari engine and the soft crash of the waves. Your eyes dance over Monte Carlo, over James, mind racing in a bid to connect the dots. Tony Stark. Thor Odinson. Justin Hammer. Brock Rumlow. It all makes  _sense_. You dare to take a step forward, heart thumping erratically.

“James, please tell me I’m right. I need to hear you say it.”

You can’t forgive James so easily. His confession doesn’t grant him mercy for his harsh words. You warned him on your first night in Monaco that if he ever spoke like that to you again you would walk away without so much as a second glance. You remind him of it now. You add that an admission will change that. Give him the opportunity to work past it. Your voice quivers with emotion as you share a confession of your own. That you know how he feels because you feel the exact same way.  _But you need to hear him say it_.

“I won’t beg you, James. Not for this.”

A warning. His gaze flickers up to meet yours and he opens his mouth. For a moment, you think he’s about to take heed. He’s about to say the words you so  _desperately_  crave to hear. But, then he clamps his mouth shut again. His eyes are blank. Grey more than blue. Dull and void of any emotion. And you feel your blood run cold. James lights a second cigarette, the first tossed aside with little concern. He turns his back on you, hands gripping the handrail until his knuckles whiten. He makes no effort to address you. Not even when you snap the terrace door shut.

* * *

 

Bucky waits for what feels like forever. His eyes sting but he doesn’t dare turn around. Not yet. Only when the sun begins to dip, streaking the sky with shades of pink and orange does he surmise it’s about time to get ready for Thor’s soirée. The packet of cigarettes is empty now. His throat burning dry because of the sheer number he’s smoked. He expects to find you on the couch with your arms crossed, or curled up in bed at the very least. A glance into the spare bedroom reveals nothing. The shower dry, unused.

Perhaps you need a moment to recollect yourself. A little breathing space away from him. After all, your clothes still hang in the closet, your make-up still decorating the vanity table. An elegant gown holds a place of pride beside the suit he’s chosen for tonight. Hugo BOSS. A blue, double breasted jacket and matching dress pants. A crisp white shirt. A knitted tie in monochrome colours. Every bit the part he needs to play perfectly. Surmising you’ll show your face soon enough, Bucky showers and slips into the suit. Hair neatly coiffed, he pours himself a glass of whiskey as he waits for you to reappear.

Bucky can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He sits facing the door, a roadblock forming in his throat because the clock’s ticking and you’re still nowhere to be seen. Bucky waits. He waits until the very last second. He waits until he’s sure he’s going to be unfashionably late. And then he stands, footfall heavy and dull.

Autopilot. Bucky cruises through the crowd at Thor’s villa easily. A glass of champagne. The shake of a hand. Conversation doesn’t come so easy, though. He’s not a natural like you. The way you charmed all these high profile men and women almost a distant memory now. You had flashed the prettiest of smiles, sought out common ground and then deftly brought up his business by singing his praises. He feels your absence now.

Dr Jane Foster does too. Brows furrowed as she expresses her disappointment at not being able to dissect her impending lecture plan with you. Thor sends her on her merry way with a kiss on her cheek, before gesturing at him to follow.

“You’ve been impatient all week,” he grins knowingly. “But, I think the time is right to discuss business.”

Bucky’s heart leaps. He’s been waiting for this moment. He can’t wait to get back to the hotel and tell you all about it.

“Before I sign this contract, I want you to know something, Bucky.”

An enthusiastic nod because at this point Bucky would get on his knees and suck Thor’s dick if it meant a signature on the dotted line.

“I wasn’t fully convinced on doing business with you until I met Y/N,” concedes Thor thoughtfully. “She’s a real firecracker, isn’t she?”

Bucky smiles weakly.

“You, on the other hand, you’re as blind as a bat. She loves you dearly, but a woman like her won’t wait around for you to get off your ass. If you don’t treat her as she deserves, I promise you I will find a man who will. Now, tell me where I need to sign and get this damn contract out of my face.”

Bucky doesn’t stick around after that. He doesn’t so much as bid anyone goodbye. He all but races back to the hotel because Thor’s given him such a knocking around the head. He calls your name, searching through the suite for you but it’s empty. Friday certainly hasn’t seen you. She’s been in the suite the past two hours packing everything back into suitcases. All your things are still there. Clothes, make-up, laptop, even the jewellery. Everything except your passport. You’re not coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hello on Tumblr](http://cametobuyplums.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cametobuyplums)


	18. Dix-huit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You visit the Sacré-Cœur. James draws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. Putain, can you believe we’re at the end of this story? Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect such a grand reception. This was meant to be a side story, one to balance out a very plot heavy one I was writing but, well, I suppose I got carried away. Thank you for making that happen. There is still a little more to come for this series, a few one-shots if you will. There's some more information on my Tumblr if you would like to find out.
> 
> [This is a playlist of songs to get you in the Parisian mood](https://open.spotify.com/user/l28tzt47c23j6rxhxpyxmjcy1/playlist/2J9j8kVB5CkiIxOxIKrTWp?si=9w4wiWxSRPmF8FVc3sDk0A)

September brings the last few dregs of searing sunshine under which Paris threatens to melt. As Provence empties, Parisians return, boasting of the fresh air all the while smoking like chimneys. A few tourists still remain, queuing in hoards for the Eiffel Tower and busying the train stations. A city that both welcomes reality and looks through rose tinted glasses.

Seven o’clock in the morning finds you draining a cup of coffee. An unlit cigarette twirling between your fingers. Windows thrown open in the hopes of welcoming a non-existent breeze, you sit cross-legged on the mattress with pages strewn around you. A meeting with Alexander Pierce looming in just a few short hours.

Several days have passed since your return from Monaco. What started as a dream ended in a nightmare. It wasn’t really until you landed in Paris that the harsh reality of it sunk in. The curt snap of your front door all too loud in an eerily empty apartment. Except it wasn’t empty. No, there is still the ever present reminder of James in every possible corner. A charcoal pencil on your desk. The matte black espresso cup that’s somehow reserved for him. Not to mention all the gifts he bought you. You’ve still no idea what to do about those.

James would most likely tell you to keep them. A bitter part of your heart reasons it’s what he told Natasha to do with the engagement ring. Or is that too cruel of you? Perhaps not, considering his less than savoury words and paradoxically, lack thereof. It’s a painful memory, that Friday afternoon in Monaco. One you can seemingly ignore during the day but at night, it rears its ugly head.

_“Well, let’s just say I’m definitely gettin’ my money’s worth, if you know what I mean.”_

You didn’t think James could be so  _unkind_. You’ve never been under any illusion about your arrangement. You know full well that every moment you’ve spent with him was bought for. He paid for the time, the company, the sex. Whether it was in cash or gifts matters not. You simply never imagined him using it against you so  _viciously_.

Nor did you expect such  _disregard_  when you confronted him. You’re certainly not as stupid as to imagine he has feelings for you. After all, he didn’t even deny it. He simply looked at you with coldness in his eyes before turning his back on you. That was why you left. No matter how deeply you’ve fallen for James, you refuse to let him treat you such. Until he acknowledges his true feelings respectfully, you refuse to let yourself sit around and wait. You deserve better.

A knock on your door pulls you from your thoughts. You welcome it readily. Wanda, with a big beaming smile and what smells like a freshly baked baguette. Loki stands just behind her, a tray of coffees in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other. He wasn’t sure which would be more necessary.

Truthfully, you  _are_  nervous about meeting Alexander Pierce. Much to your gratitude, Sam has agreed to accompany you. He’s far better versed in the literary industry than you are and as your mentor of sorts, you value his input. Having said that, there is a small spark of excitement. You’ve been working hard for an opportunity like this and you deserve it.

Tequila put away for later, you feast on fresh coffee and bread with salted butter with your friends. For a moment, forgetting all about James. Until Wanda asks how your trip to Monaco was. A nonchalant smile. A slight shrug. A light of your cigarette.

“Every bit as glamorous as you would expect.”

The end of your sentence is punctuated with an outcry, your cigarette snatched away by Loki who puffs away on it with great deliberation. Wanda bears a guilty expression. You eye her suspiciously.

“Vis is worried about Bucky,” she admits. “He says he’s been very quiet since he got back.”

“ _Vis_?”

“Oh yes,” interjects Loki, with an impish grin. “She has a little nickname for her lover now.”

“You call Jarvis,  _Vis_?”

“You’re changing the subject,” scowls Wanda, folding her arms. “Bucky won’t talk to Vis-  _Jarvis_. Did something happen?”

A certain coldness creeps in. The shift in mood far too noticeable to ignore. A small part of you is relieved to know that James isn’t entirely unaffected. You suppose his quietness has some relation to the three calls of his you’ve ignored. Not out of spite. Self-respect. Whatever you feel towards James, you won’t let him come first place to your career. This meeting with Alexander Pierce is far more important than your personal life and you owe it to yourself to give it your attention.

A soft call of your name. Wanda frowns worriedly and even Loki has a look of concern about him. A sigh escapes you, bare feet patter against the scuffed wooden floor. Cigarette smoke swirls in the air. You reveal that you bumped into Brock Rumlow. Wanda immediately remembers him as the older man from Washington DC. Loki rather unsubtly asks for confirmation that Brock was the one whose bulging biceps he once salivated over. A roll of your eyes. James’ jealousy was simply the catalyst. You bite your lip, hesitant to continue.

“In no uncertain terms, he called me a whore,” you say flatly, leaning against the kitchen counter. “And the worst part is,  _putain_ , I’ve fallen for him.”

There’s no going back now that you’ve said the words aloud. It’s painful, almost. All those tears you refused to shed flowing freely. Does James think it’s any easier for you? Is he under the delusion that you planned to fall in love with him? You knew he always handsome and charming from the get-go, but you thought you had your heart guarded well enough. You weren’t looking for love. Not with him. Not with anyone.

James took you by surprise and it was nothing to do with his money. He’s smart and educated, a cultured creative like yourself. Late night conversations about history, politics, art, literature. Hands gesturing animatedly and eyes twinkling delightedly. Early mornings draped in white silk sheets, skin lingering with the scent of each other. A sense of adventure, a playfulness that’s your influence no doubt. A confidence he carries himself with. A smile that makes you feel as if he knows you in every intimate way possible.

A growl of frustration accompanies a furious wipe of your tears. This is precisely what you wanted to avoid. You huff and resume a cross-legged position beside Wanda. A hand on your knee.

“What are you going to do?” she asks gently.

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly, raking a hand through your hair. “I still have all of this stuff.”

“Oh, no!” cries Loki, leaping up in outrage. “No, if you won’t keep it, I will.”

“Loki, what are you going to do with Louboutins and Dior dresses?” asks Wanda, scolding him for a lack of sensitivity.

“I will wear them,” says Loki, holding up a finger daringly. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“Please, stop,” you groan loudly, head in your hands. “Right now, I have better things to worry about than James Barnes.”

* * *

 

Crêpes with sliced strawberries and Nutella. Waffles drowning in syrup and banana chips. A side of bacon. Poached eggs. Smoked salmon. English muffins. Freshly brewed coffee. Mimosas. The scrubbed wooden table practically groans under the weight of Peggy’s banquet. A celebratory breakfast of sorts, one she insisted on hosting because Bucky has secured a contract with Thor Odinson.

Raucous cheers and pats on the back. A toast to Bucky’s brilliance and he beams with pride, cheeks flushed pink because he truly does have the greatest friends a man could ask for. He tries little to dwell on the subject of Monaco. A few answers here and there of feigned indifference. Hums of agreement that Monaco is indeed expensive. Questions of you that he easily skates over. He busies himself with food, shovelling as many crêpes as he can in his mouth until Peggy is offended at his lack of table manners.

“I should really get going,” says Sam, pushing his chair back and clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “I’m meeting your girl.”

Bucky promptly chokes and Nutella dribbles down his chin unattractively. Peggy subtly slides a napkin across the table.

“ _What_?” he chokes out. “Why?”

“Relax, Romeo,” laughs Sam. “She wants me to go with her to meet Pierce.”

“That’s  _today_?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

Bucky suddenly feels uncomfortable with being the centre of attention. The scrutiny of Sam’s gaze. Steve’s eyebrows of disappointment. Bucky clears his throat, heat rising under his collar but he does his best impression of the man he is the courtroom. Back straight and careful to keep any emotions from his face.

“She mentioned meeting Pierce, yeah,” he says carefully, sipping his coffee. “We haven’t had much of a chance to talk since we got back.”

Sam seems to buy it, shrugging his shoulders and snatching his jacket up from the back of a chair. The clatter of cutlery resumes once more. Bucky exhales.

“You should tell her not to worry,” adds Sam. “She’s talented and he can see that. The last piece she sent me was incredible. Are you sure she’s just your sugar baby? The way she writes about you, man.”

Peggy is well prepared for the fountain of coffee that sprays across the table this time, having placed the toasted muffins well out of harm’s way. All eyes on Bucky once more, there’s little he can do to hide the guilt that’s far too obviously etched on his face.

“I-  _she writes about me_?”

“You haven’t read her stuff?” quips Steve, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” confesses Bucky, eyes dancing as he recalls the week prior. “She gave me a copy and…”

 _Like the idiot you are, you put it in your laptop bag and forgot all about it_ , his brain finishes for him. You didn’t mention it  _once_. A whole week in Monaco and you never brought it up. Not a single pointed question of what he thought. Nor any passive aggressive remarks. Nothing.  _Shit_. Bucky’s well and truly screwed this one up.

“I have to go,” he blurts, standing up abruptly with a quick kiss to Peggy’s cheek. “Thanks for breakfast.”

A dark blue laptop bag emblazoned with the Montblanc logo just under the handle. It sits accusingly atop the glass desk in Bucky’s home office. He tears through it, finding the neat stack of papers you’d carefully printed and collated. A simple title page. Your neat handwriting in the corner, a small smiley face and a few words proclaiming that you await his opinion.

A frustrated groan follows the loud bang of Bucky’s head against the desk. Is it any wonder you ignored his calls? It’s the one thing you’ve only really ever asked of him. A quick read of your writing because you clearly hold his opinion in high-esteem. Or at least, you  _did_. You probably think the complete opposite of him now and he has no-one to blame but himself.

Bucky’s eyes are awash with the glow that your words bring. Hunched over in the leather chair behind his desk, he devours every line. A certain nostalgia, he can hear you reading every word aloud. It’s been a long time since he read something that wasn’t a legal document. But, even he’s not  _that_  obtuse. He can recognise the magic you weave with words. A private little world of your own construction. One that you’ve granted him entry to.

A world he falls into easily because he’s a part of it. Not completely. It’s not a story about him. But there are nuances of himself there he’s familiar enough with. His favourite whiskey. The tuck of his little finger under his coffee cup. The wrinkles in the corners of his eyes that he’s suddenly no longer so conscious about. He’s reminded of a late night conversation.

* * *

 

_“You know, they say that if a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.”_

_Bucky tilts his head to look at you. You lie on your front with barely a sheet to preserve your modesty. A finger you run up the centre of his chest. Sleep beginning to pool in your eyes. Not enough to stop you from taking the cigarette from him. A few puffs. You tuck it back between his lips. He smiles lazily._

_“Yeah? Who’s the poor bastard you’ve immortalised then, babygirl?”_

_You laugh heartily, quirking an eyebrow._

_“I have to fall in love with someone worthy enough to write about first.”_

* * *

 

The thud of Bucky’s heart is discernible. God, has he really been so  _stupid_? Is he really the kind of man to let fear and uncertainty pave his path? He has to make things right, set store by you, that much he’s sure of. There’s no point in calling you. No, he needs to  _see_  you.

Jarvis is somewhat surprised when Bucky refuses the car. But, he’s quite intent on taking the metro. Something he hasn’t done in  _years_. It’s not about money. It’s not about showing off his wealth or status. Extravagant gifts and grand gestures aren’t going to show you that he’s sorry. Grand gestures aren’t what will win you over. As an artist, he knows it’s about the small details. The little subtleties others might fail to notice. The small, meaningful things that show someone what they truly mean to you.

Bucky races up the winding staircase to the fifth floor, taking them two at a time and he’s breathless by the time he reaches your front door. He’s probably sweaty, he doesn’t have a speech rehearsed but  _God_ , does he want to see you badly and tell you how sorry he is.

“Babygirl, I’m so- oh. Hello, Wanda.”

Bucky frowns at the raised eyebrow he’s greeted with. A slight wince, he supposes you must have told her what happened. Movement over her shoulder and his brows furrow in confusion. Is that… Loki? Sashaying around in the Dior dress he bought you? Wanda raises the other brow, as if daring him to make a comment. Bucky clears his throat.

“Is Y/N in? I really need to see her.”

“No, she’s not.”

Bucky glances at his watch. Surely you should be back from your meeting with Pierce. It’s been hours.

“Do you know where she is?” he asks Wanda, not bothering to hide the sheer desperation in his voice. “Please?”

Wanda cocks her head, taking her time to answer. She looks as if she’s thoroughly enjoying watching him squirm. He can’t say he really blames her but he’s growing impatient. Every passing second pushes you further away.

“If I had to take a guess,” she muses. “I would say she’s at her favourite place.”

Bucky can feel the panic rising as he tries to decipher the riddle Wanda has presented him with.  _Your favourite place_? Thoughts blurring into another, he racks his brains trying to find the answer.  _Your favourite place_? Home, Wanda’s wine bar… He’s reminded of a conversation with Thor over dinner. The first night in Monaco. A skip of his heart. Wanda must see the confusion in his eyes lift, a small smile on her face and he could hug her right about now.

“Thank you, Wanda, thank you!”

* * *

 

_“There is more of Montmartre in Paris than there is of Paris in Montmartre.”_

Words that make you smile. A slight breeze ripples through the air, carrying with it the melodious tune the harpist across the way plays. Another man beside him, a large sketchpad open as he attempts to entice a tourist or two for a caricature. A cable car that reminds you of the film  _Celine et Julie vont en bateau_.

The Sacré-Cœur sits majestically behind you. White marble set against a clear blue sky. From your perch on the steps, you feel as if you could leap forward, right on to the very rooftops of Paris. A hotspot rife with tourists, yes. But, your favourite nonetheless. A monument of controversy, its history filled with bloodshed and a grand debacle between the Church and State. After all, what’s Paris without a messy story?

It’s your favourite because, ironically perhaps, there’s a certain serenity. For a country that prides itself on staunch secularism, it’s proof that people still need something greater to believe in. You do your best thinking here. Even some of your best writing. The one place you refuse to bring your friends to. It’s a breath of fresh air. A bubble of your own. Hours have passed. You still show no signs of boredom. Content washes over you. Real life a whole other world away.

You’re still processing your meeting with Pierce. Truthfully, you’re trying not to let yourself be carried away. There’s still much to learn, he told you, you’re young and naive. Nevertheless, Alexander Pierce wants to take you on.

“ _Bonjour, mademoiselle_.”

The involuntarily skip of your heartbeat. A low, velvety voice that’s softly spoken. One that both warms your heart and shatters it all over again. A lump forms in your throat.

“ _Je souhaite_ , uh,  _vous montrer mon travail_?”

The first words he ever said to you. Words that allowed you a brief glimpse at his art. You barely remember it, but you remember thinking he had poured a portion of his soul into such a simple drawing of you. Daring to look up, a pair of bright blue eyes meet yours. A hint of a plea. A large scrap of paper clutched in a charcoal stained hand.

It’s of you, the drawing. The peace on your face captured perfectly. Hair fluttering in the breeze. The little details of your loafers. The crisp white shirt tucked into black pants. A barely there smile and a dreamy expression as you gaze off into the distance. An inkling of the Sacré-Cœur bordering the sheet.

Brows knitted together, you realise he must have been here for quite some time. The stick of charcoal in his hands matches that of the set the caricature artist holds. You glance up, seeing the artist pack his things away and eagerly rifle through the stack of cash in his hands. There’s little you can do but smile. You’re helpless to it, really.

“I see you haven’t lost your touch for following me.” you remark dryly.

“I should’ve followed you sooner,” he says sadly. “I should’ve followed you the second you walked out that door.”

A soft sigh and you turn to face James. He sits beside you, a grey sweater under a brown suede jacket. Beard reduced down to a stubble that’s a few days old. A few smudges of charcoal dot his jaw, the rest smeared all over his fingers. Handsome as ever. Poised as always. James has a habit of making your heart soar against your better judgement.

“Hi.” he says quietly, offering you the only smile he can muster.

“Hi.” you echo shortly.

“You didn’t answer my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.”

James chuckles nervously, running a hand through his hair. A few caramel coloured strands now streaked with charcoal, too.

“I deserve that,” he says fairly. “I deserve a lot worse, actually. I’m surprised you haven’t thrown your coffee at me or something.”

“I would hate to waste perfectly good coffee.”

“Babygirl,” he says ruefully and you try to ignore how much you adore the pet name. “Will you hear me out, please? I just really gotta tell you this and then if you never wanna see me again, I’ll understand.”

The quiver in his voice silences you. There’s redness rimmed around his eyes and you know he’s true to his word. A nod, an invitation to continue.

“I’m sorry.  _I’m so_   _sorry_ ,” he mourns ruefully. “I know that’s not enough, it’ll never be enough but  _God_ , you gotta know how sorry I am.”

“I shouldn’t have said what I did. I shouldn’t’ve let you walk away. I should’ve come after you and told you that you were right, that I felt the same way ‘bout you.”

“Why did you say those things?” you demand. “James, do you know how much it  _hurt_  hearing that from you?”

Make no mistake, you knew the nature of your agreement from day one. The money isn’t the issue. It’s the way he threw it in your face. How he made you feel  _cheap_.  _Used_. Did he feel better after humiliating you? Was it worth it? Your voice breaks and James visibly falters, fingers curling into fists as if he thinks better of reaching out to you.

“It was a dick move,” he says solemnly. “I was a real asshole and you didn’t deserve that. I was just...”

“Jealous?” you bark harshly. “You had no right to be considering you couldn’t even admit your feelings. I’m not  _yours_  to be jealous over.”

“I was scared,” he concedes. “I’m still scared. I spent all this time telling you that I left New York ‘cause I didn’t want commitment and here I am, falling for you.”

James blinks in rapid succession, willing away the tears that have formed. A lump in his throat, he swallows it down with a nervous gulp.

“I’m not sayin’ I want marriage or kids. I’m not sayin’ I want forever. Things change. But, what if that’s not what you want? You’re young and smart and beautiful. What if I’m not enough for you?”

Lost in his own little tirade, you let him continue without interruption despite the many questions you have. His honesty doesn’t go amiss.

“That night with Wade and Vanessa, all I could think about was that I want what they have. They’re fuckin’ crazy about each other, you know?” He chuckles. “Actually, they  _are_  crazy. Period. But, they’re happy doin’ what they do. It’s like one never-ending honeymoon. They’re as much best friends as they are lovers. And they’re  _happy_.”

A pause in which he rubs at his chin, the charcoal spreading further but you haven’t the chance to tell him.

“I waited for you,” he says, voice quivering dangerously close to breaking. “I was so sure you were gonna come back. I waited like the idiot I am. And when you didn’t, I knew I’d fucked up real bad. Didn’t realise it until Thor knocked me round the head for it. Told me if I didn’t treat you right he’d find you someone who did.”

James has the courtesy to bow his head. You’re breathing heavily. A dull ache settling in your chest. Every word he says shoots straight to you me heart. A burning combination of heartbreak and love. A small swell of gratitude for Thor, even if you are ever so slightly annoyed that it took so long for him to wake up and realise what was right before him. You’re mulling his words over in your head. Trying to sort the pieces out. Wondering what, if anything, is salvageable.

And then James looks back up. Blue eyes wet with tears but burning with determination. Jaw clenched tight, he takes hold of your hand, placing it over his chest and you feel your own eyes sting at how fast his heart is thudding.

“I love you,” he says in a voice that’s no more than a whisper. “ _I love you_  and it scares me, babygirl. I’m scared of what it means. I’m scared it’s not enough. I can’t promise I want marriage or kids. I can’t promise you forever. But, I love you. I love you and I’ll do whatever it takes to show you how sorry I am.”

A sincerity laces the sorrow. You can feel what his admission means. The weight of it heavy on your heart. His voice breaking and you can feel the sharp pang in your chest. Tourists mill around you. A blur of colours and distant noise. The world slows down just for you and James.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for not telling you how I feel sooner, too,” you begin. “I know you’re sorry, James, I  _know_  you are. But, one conversation isn’t going to make me fall back into your arms and forgive you.”

Letting James’ hand fall from your grip, you stand and retrieve your bag, the drawing safely tucked into it. Feet light on the marble steps, you swivel when you reach the bottom. Frozen in fear, his eyes are red as he hastily wipes at them. A trail of tears and his dripping nose wiped into his hair. You’re not without a soul. You feel his pain fully, heart breaking anew.

“Well?” You say loudly, expectantly, and he looks at you with startled eyes. “I thought following me was a specialty of yours?”

A flicker of hope. James keenly steps after you, a little shyness in the way he ducks his head. A few precious minutes of silence, allowing you both the reprieve you need.

“When did you know?” You pose, a hand curled around the strap of your bag.

James looks at you with such fondness it’s impossible to think him anything other than wonderful in that moment. A big, beaming smile that lights up his eyes.

“That last night in Monaco,” he answers with no hesitation. “After Thor’s tea party.”

“You realised you love me when I was naked, blindfolded and tied up?” You ask sceptically, the old lady beside you snickering loudly.

“No, babygirl,” he chuckles with a shake of his head. “After.”

“What happened after?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I was a little... overwhelmed with exhaustion,” You remind him sheepishly, and his fond express returns. “I remember you carrying me to bed, but nothing after.”

You stop at the lights, traffic whizzing past and even though the blearing horns are deafening, there’s an unmistakable adoration in James’ words.

“You asked me to hold you,” he says, gazing at you dreamily. “You had this look in your eyes and I swear, I couldn’t say no. Didn’t have in me to let you go, so I just held you all night.”

“Mine,” You murmur, the jigsaw pieces beginning to slot in place. “The next morning. That’s what you said. You meant...”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, raking a hand through his hair again. “I made a mess of that day, huh?”

“Have I ever told you why I love Paris so much?” You ask, as you walk slowly up your street. “Paris exists in a world of its own. Love is love. Sex is sex. And when the lines blur and it consumes Parisians, they embrace it because they set their own rules, rest of the world be damned.”

Night has begun to trickle over the city, blue sky fading into pink. A few familiar patrons smoking outside Wanda’s wine bar. And even so, the world seems to pause for a moment. You and James the only two who exist. It’s not awkward as such. Merely a minute in which to reflect. He makes no move to take his leave and yet, doesn’t presume to command the situation.

James Barnes. It’s with the eye of a writer in which you regard him. A soft, lopsided smile that tugs at the corners of his pink lips. Hands still pocketed in a show of submission. Charcoal remains smudged across most of his jaw. Perhaps he’s not noticed. Every bit the man you remember. He gazes at you with that fondness again. A look that you’ve come to discern as love.

A spark of something, you’re not quite sure what, that flickers between you. His eyes drop down to your lips. Only for a split second. Not enough to suggest anything on his part. But, it makes your pulse quicken all the same. The smallest of steps. You lean in, stopping for just a second as James lets out an audible breath, and then you’re brushing his lips with yours. It’s not a kiss, not really. The ghost of one, maybe. Chaste and with no real emotion about it.

“James,” you say quietly. “If you ever- “

You never do quite reach the end of your sentence. Your voice wavers, eyes prick with hot tears. The cocoon of strong arms and a hard chest. A kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your cheek. Your lips. A long, drawn out kiss that speaks of love and passion. Soft murmurs of “ _I know_ ” and “ _I love you_ ”. Unspoken promises of earning your forgiveness. You stumble into your darkening apartment.

James claims your mouth in a kiss that’s forever seared in your memory. Hot. Needy. An underlying tenderness in the way he cups your face. Lips sliding against yours in that rough manner of his that sets alight every nerve in your body. Your lips part, mouth ajar but he kisses you still, tugging your bottom lip between his teeth and sucking softly.

Winded, breath snatched from your lungs. You melt into him enough for a loud crash to resound as his back slams against the door. A soft groan muffled by your lips. His jacket a heap on the floor. Sweater following suit. And then he draws back, hands delicately holing you by the waist.

“Wait, wait,” he says breathily. “I don’t wanna rush this, babygirl. I wanna take my time with you. Can I? Please? Let me love you like you deserve?”

A nod. The swell of your heart and the soar of anticipation. A kiss that’s slow and burns deep in your belly. The soft stroke of his tongue against yours as his hands wrap around your thighs. A hum of delight he swallows, hoisting you up into his arms and carrying you to the mattress. You can feel the thrum in your core. The simple gesture fuelling your want of James.

A chuckle, and your eyes snap open. That lopsided grin and cheeky adoration as he runs a thumb along your lip. He’s discovered that he’s coated in charcoal. Remnants of it now on your skin too. Another gentle brush of his lips, a little rougher around the edges. Fingers tugging at your shirt buttons with little urgency. Your breath catches with every layer he peels from you. Whole body flushing under his gaze. It’s so  _hot._ You burn with the intensity of his gaze, the skilful wander of his hands, the wet warmth of his mouth.

Kisses scatter over your neck. As if James is taking time to re-learn every inch of you. The spot that makes you tremble. The patch of skin that earns a gasp when he scrapes his teeth over it. The cry of his name when he sucks on the right side of bruisingly. Every press of his lips, each flick of his tongue, it brings the most  _divine_  scrape of his scruffy jaw, your skin stinging with heat.

Propped up on his elbows, you feel dampness between your thighs all from the hungry way James drinks you in. Blue eyes blown wide with lust. Teeth worrying his bottom lip until it’s swollen and red.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He murmurs in your ear, a shiver racing down your spine. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, princess.”

James pulls himself to his feet, tugging his jeans off in a frenzy. You mewl, heat spiking as you take in the rise and fall of his chiselled chest. The odd freckles dotted over it. Smooth skin bronzed from Monaco. The fine trail of hair that disappears into his white cotton boxer briefs. A bite of his lips, he knows you’re unashamedly ogling him. A rock of your hips, desire beginning to cloud your judgement.

And even though his promise to take his time idles in the air, there’s an undeniable urgency about the way he sheds himself of his underwear and crawls back over you.  _God_ , the feel of his hard cock dragging over your thigh is so  _teasing_. A wrist James catches all too easily, fingers entwined as he pins your hands to the sheets. The whine that tumbles from your lips embarrassingly loud.

“Always so desperate,” he chuckles, voice already raspy with want. “You’ll get my cock. But first, I wanna get my mouth on that pretty pussy. Can I, babygirl? Can I taste you?”

A harmony of sweet nothings and rough domination. You haven’t in you to deny James. Not when he laves wet kisses over your collarbone. Traces his tongue in circles over your breasts. Sucks a nipple between his teeth and tugs just harshly enough to arch your back off the bed.

The heat in your belly heightens, spiralling out of control as he dances lower with each kiss. You tense beneath him, skin  _scorching_  and a gasp rips through the air when he runs his nose along your slick folds, hot breath fanning over you. A  _mess_ , he’s rendered you a  _begging_   _mess_  and he’s barely touched you.

“You’re so wet, princess,” he groans, a finger circling your entrance. “You taste so sweet.”

Whispered desires to take his time tasting you, making you come undone over and over with his mouth, wanting you to ride his face again. Your head spins, drowning with pleasure and fleeting fantasies. An utterly  _filthy_  growl from James, a wolffish glimmer in his eyes at how hard you yank at his hair. An impatient roll of your hips. He relents.

It’s  _dizzying_.  _Consuming_. Exquisitely,  _agonisingly_  so. James delves in like a man starved, bliss and satisfaction moaned into your hot skin. You’re heady, wrapped in heat that tightens the coil in your belly. Your hips stutter, greedily taking what he gives you but all the while chasing  _more_. You’re  _impossibly_  wet, growing close to the edge. A tug at his hair. His fingers curving with every pump. Tongue flicking over your clit. Nails raking over your thighs. Stubble burning deliciously.

“ _James_ , James,  _please_.”

“Come, babygirl. Let go, I’ve got you.”

James coaxes a shuddering moan of his name from you. Thighs trembling as pleasure courses through you and it’s overwhelmingly  _perfect_. The release that you’ve been so desperately wanting. An ache that only  _James_  can satisfy. And  _God_ , it’s so  _hot_  the way bliss crashes over you and makes every nerve in your body sing.

Dazed and dreamy. You’re light, floaty. A grin that’s both prideful and devilish on James’ face. His lips swollen and glistening with your arousal. A show of licking them. You taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses you deeply.

“You’re so pretty when you come,” he hums, renewed arousal a hot jolt in your core. “You have no idea what it does to me, princess.”

The twitch of his cock against your clit and you keen. Nails bite into his shoulder and his moan is muffled, face buried in your neck.

“Please, James,” you slur, still engulfed in a heady fog. “I don’t,  _can’t_  wait. Please.”

James’ eyes are blown wide, blackened. But there’s none of his usual predatory cheek there. No, it’s a look of desire and longing reflected there. Excitement. Anticipation. He scrapes his teeth along your shoulder. The rough kind of possessiveness that only you seem capable of drawing from him. Wildly intimate and you know he’s as lost to his need as you are.

Air thick and wafting with James’ musky scent. You squeal when he lifts you as he sits on his knees. Fingers tightly curled around your hips, eyes seeking permission that you grant with a drape of your arms around his shoulders. Slowly, he guides you down and you moan at the delicious feel of his hard length stretching you so. And  _God_ , you feel impossibly  _brimming_  when he’s fully seated. A mess of moans and begs so soon.

A strangled noise, something of a groan or a curse, you’re not quite sure, but it has butterflies blooming in your tummy. Teeth clamped down on his bottom lip. Eyes clenched shut. Restraint to the point he looks pained by it.

“James?”

Clouded eyes, hooded and dark. A brief smile, a quick kiss to reassure you. He whispers with a chuckle that he just doesn’t want this to be over so soon, that you feel so good, so perfect. A slight swell of satisfaction on your part, and a deliberate rock of your hips.

An urgency despite James’ insistence to take it slow. That familiar heat already ebbing close. An utterly sinful sight. A fine sheen of sweat slicking his chest. Muscles tensing beneath your touch. A few tendrils of hair falling over his forehead. Red lips parted as he pants out ragged, shaky breaths. Hard chest dragging against your breasts. Stolen kisses, open-mouthed ones that hungrily ravish you.

“I love you.” He whispers, arms tightening around you and you feel the full gravity of his worlds.

“I love you, too.” You whisper back.

An admission that somehow spikes the temperature in the room. Your craving for one another suddenly  _insatiable_. Every rock of your hips met with a roll of his and it’s fast, frenzied and  _maddening_. Your fingers fist in his hair, clenching and pulling at the dark strands. James groans into your neck, leaves kisses there in his wake.

A blissed out moan that you’re close. He is too, cock swelling and muscles taut. A nip at his earlobe and he shudders, slamming you down and  _God_ , he’s so deep you cry out.

“C’mon, babygirl,” he urges, hips snapping faster. “Let me hear you. Wanna hear you when you come on my cock.”

You tremble, vision blurring. Sweet nothings that are as equally filthy murmured in your ear. You’ve never felt as  _vulnerable_  as you do now, but he has his arms wound tight around you, worshipful awe in his eyes and you  _surrender_.

A shaky gasp of James’ name. Body trembling as sheer ecstasy crashes down over you in hot waves. Sparks fly behind your closed eyes. It’s  _intense_. The raw heat of it all overwhelmingly  _incredible_. The flutter of your walls tips James over the edge, too. A hoarse cry of your name as he spills into you, warmth flooding you and you moan aloud, sagging against him in sated relief.

Whimpers and mewls when James’ lies you down on the ruined sheets. Charcoal half-smeared across both your bare bodies. A searing kiss that has you chasing the warmth of his skin when he pulls away. A moment of tenderness as he cleans you up. And then he’s beside you. Not so much as a hint of reservation as he pulls you to his chest. You sigh, shoulders sinking at the kiss he presses to your temple. It’s so  _right_. Perfectly  _natural_. To be wrapped up in his arms as you soak up the last few dregs of intense pleasure.

Night has well and truly fallen now. The apartment dark. You roll on to your front, lighting the large white candle that sits by your bed. Neither of you feels the need to switch the lights on as of yet. A cigarette you reach for, giggling because your position allows James to press a kiss in the valley between your breasts. You tuck the cigarette between his lips, lighting it with an amber flicker of flames.

A cigarette shared. Smoke swirling between your lips and his. James draws lazy circles on your bare shoulder, a hand thrown over your waist. Contemplation. From you both respectively. James knows this isn’t an indication of forgiveness, merely the start.

“The money has to stop,” you say, stubbing the cigarette butt out. “The rent, the bills, all of it.”

James nods absent-mindedly. You suspect he wants to protest. That he wants to take care of you. But you care little for his money. It’s the principle of it. He isn’t paying for your love.

“I’m still spoilin’ you,” he drawls, words steeped in his Brooklyn accent. “That’s my choice. ‘Sides, I hear champagne and chocolate covered strawberries make a hell of an apology.”

A charming grin that’s somewhat goofy. He means to be cheeky but he looks so wistful it’s almost endearing. You dance your fingers over the divots of his defined muscles.

“Tell me something. A secret.”

“A secret? Alright.”

You’re asking for him to entrust you with something no-one else knows. Not for any reason other than to be marked as his equal. To ensure that those blurred lines no longer exist. James muses thoughtfully. And then the faintest trace of pink colours high on his cheeks.

“I’m scared of the dentist,” he admits in a small voice and you blink. “It’s the chair, alright? It’s... real fuckin’ creepy. I always feel like I’m ‘bout to get tortured when I sit in the damn chair. Don’t- are you  _laughin_ ’ at me?”

A growl and you squeal. James’ fingers scrabbling at the sensitive spots on your skin he knows far too well. Your laughter filters through the air. Squeaks of terror and breathless giggles because you’re ticklish and he takes full advantage of the knowledge. Chuckles of his own as he relents, propped up on his elbows over you.

An overwhelming feeling that threatens to suffocate you. You can feel yourself relaxing. Giving in too easily. You want to forgive James. You do. But his cruel words aren’t so readily forgotten. Slipping out of his grip, you reach for your underwear.

“Let’s take a walk,” you suggest, snatching up an abandoned sweater. “I think we could both use some fresh air.”

The most salacious grin, rife with mischief and flirtation. James stands impossibly close, heat radiating from his bare body and you try not to let your eyes drift from his.

“I think that’s mine, princess.”

A glance down and you realise the hem of your sweater is further than it should be. It hangs loose on your frame, oversized on your shoulders. The scent of leather, cashmeran and almond bitter cocoons you. A heat creeps over your cheeks. You make to remove it but James stills you with a close of his fingers over your wrist.

“Keep it,” he says lowly. “Looks good on you.”

James stands there in his dark jeans and the brown suede jacket. Nothing on underneath, chest bared tantalisingly. A most wolffish grin offered to you. He knows all too well the effect he has on you. The fractional darkening of your eyes. The skip of your heart. The flush that rises up over your skin. His chest rumbles with the velvety baritone of his laugh. You huff and do the zip of his jacket right up to his neck. An exaggerated pout. The cock of his head. You narrow your eyes, pretending to ignore how he pulls the zip back down halfway. Tease.

Paris sparkles with beauty, magic and charm. Lights that twinkle and it’s ethereal the way they reflect off the rippling water of the Seine. Footsteps echo off the cobbled paving. Conversation in rapid fire French echoes around you. The splosh of wine poured from a bottle.

Silence that’s neither of discomfort nor content. You and James walk in step with one another. His arm brushes yours on occasion. Not purposeful. Still sending sparks down your spine all the same. A pause on the riverbank. You dig your through your bag for the packet of cigarettes you keep stowed there. An unlit one balanced between your lips. A customary “ _putain_ ” when you realise you’ve lost your lighter.

“May I?”

You whirl around at the sound of his deep voice. He looks handsomer, if that’s possible, set against the dark Parisian sky like a Van Gogh masterpiece. The fairy lights strung in trees highlight the sparse grey hairs that pepper his beard, something you find inexplicably attractive. He’s clutching a lighter in his right hand, and you lean towards the flickering flame, your cigarette still tucked in your mouth.

A moment that was not so long ago. One in which you told him he was crazy. He remembers it too. Plucking the cigarette from you with ease. You don’t mind. You remember the piece of paper in your bag, unfurling it and admiring the charcoal drawing. And then it clicks. The crystal clear image of the painting that hangs on your wall. The very one he bought you. Recognition lights up your eyes. James smiles, flicking ash from the cigarette. A slight shrug as he offers an excuse that he has blatant disregard for.

“Call it artistic licence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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